


A Foreign Affair

by annabellelux



Category: Carry On Series - Rainbow Rowell, Red White & Royal Blue - Casey McQuiston, Simon Snow & Related Fandoms
Genre: Alternate Universe, Alternate Universe- Non-Magical, Angst, Angst with a Happy Ending, Aromantic Agatha Wellbelove, Enemies to Friends to Lovers, Eventual Smut, Fake/Pretend Relationship, Fluff, Humor, M/M, Multiple Pov, Pining, Slow Burn, TW: Character Outing, TW: Homophobia, TW: Self Harm, Texting, deep talks, mental health
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2019-07-21
Updated: 2019-10-13
Packaged: 2020-07-09 18:15:39
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 15
Words: 76,227
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/19892191
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/annabellelux/pseuds/annabellelux
Summary: When First Son of the United States Simon Snow causes an international incident due to his rivalry with Crown Prince Basilton Pitch, it's time for damage control: the two enemies have to pretend to be best friends to avoid the bad press.Simon would say this is easier said than done, considering he hates Baz.Baz would say this is easier said than done, considering he's in love with Simon.(AKA Red, White, & Royal Blue AU)





	1. Cake-tastrophe

**Author's Note:**

> hi I'm obsessed with both Carry On and Red, White, & Royal Blue so I decided to fuse them!! I don't know exactly how long this story is going to be but it will be multi-chaptered and be filled with banter, angst, and fluff, I hope you enjoy the first chapter!!
> 
> Edit: Reading red white and royal blue is totally not necessary to read this (the titles will make more sense if you have tho lol). I’ve set the stage so that even if you don’t want to read RWRB, this will make sense and just be like a Normal/ Royal AU. I do recommend reading RWRB, if only because it’s excellent. If you plan on reading it, though, there might be some spoilers for the book. I’ve changed quite a bit to make this a more realistic SnowBaz story, but some basic and major events will be the same (though you wouldn’t know what I’ve changed and kept so it’s not a total spoiler.) Still, thought I’d put this spoiler-ish warning in so I don’t ruin anyone’s reading experience. 
> 
> Also, read the tagged trigger warnings (there will also be more specific warnings before each chapter with triggers. if there’s something specific you’d like added that I’ve overlooked, please feel free to let me know)
> 
> With that said, let’s gooooo

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Simon and Baz cause a scene at the royal wedding.

**Simon**

"Simon," Penny says, "You are so far past the line of your quota that I can no longer see it in the rearview mirror."

I huff at her. "This weekend should be the exception to the rule."

"Oh no," Penny says, shaking her head quickly and looking slightly horrified, "if I make an exception this week, then there will be an exception every other week." Penny begins to do a mildly insulting mimic of my voice, " 'But Penny, I swear he's plotting something to embarrass me at this weekend's benefit', 'But Penny, he's on the cover of Vogue this month', 'But Penny, he got a haircut yesterday'".

Agatha lets out an unattractive, snorty laugh. I glare at her and she smiles angelically back at me. "Sorry, Si," Agatha says, not sounding the least bit sorry, "She's got you there. The quota exists for your own good, and our sanity. No talking about Baz Pitch until we're at least on the plane."

I throw my hands up, aggravated by them and everything. "Why do we even have to go to this wedding?"

Penny looks at me like I'm being an extra special idiot. "Why do we have to go to the Royal Wedding?"

"Yes," I growl back defensively, "We're not even British."

"Yes," Penny says, "But we're the First Family."

"Of America! Didn't we start the Revolution to avoid British kings and their evil, plotting princes?" I demand. 

"I think it was a taxation thing," Agatha says blandly, looking at her issue of People. I don't know why she likes tabloids so much. Most of it's bullshit, anyways. 

Now, Penny looks at us like we're both extra special idiots, "Way to water down the most influential Revolution of the millennium. Honestly, this is why Mom doesn't let you two talk at any of the press conferences. You would both accidentally start an international conflict."

"Now, that's just dramatic. Looks like Simon doesn't have a monopoly on drama in this friend group." Agatha says, turning a page of her trashy magazine. 

Penny flicks a glob of mashed potatoes off her spoon and it lands square on Agatha's button nose. She looks shocked for a moment, before we all, including her, burst into uncontrollable laughter.

"Having fun, kids?" A compelling voice says from behind us. Agatha uses her tablecloth to quickly wipe food from her face before the President of the United States sees it.

"Just the best, Mom." Penny says with a too innocent smile that her mom's too smart to buy.

"Mmhmm." Mitali Bunce says, disbelievingly. "Are you all ready for tomorrow?"

"Simon can't stop talking about it, he's thrilled." Agatha says. Sarcasm never sounds right in her voice; it's too high pitched, too sweet, to sound properly hard or cutting enough to give way to proper sarcasm. She almost makes it sound like I've seriously been waiting for this weekend all year.

But President Bunce is far too used to the long-standing rivalry between me and Prince Tyrannus Basilton Grimm-Pitch to think I was actually gushing about the Royal Wedding. 

"Simon," Mitali says, somehow, both affectionately and with a hint of warning, "please be on your best behavior this weekend."

"I'm always on my best behavior!" I insist, a tad too defensively. "It's _Baz_ that always starts it."

Agatha stage whispers to Penny, "Have you ever seen Basilton start a single one of their arguments?"

"Literally never." Penny responds, dramatically cupping her hand to 'whisper' to Agatha. It's obviously still plenty loud enough for the whole room to hear.

I want to call them out for being rotten traitors, but I have to wait until Mitali is out of the room.

"Sweetheart," Mitali says patiently. "Please just try. It's his cousin's wedding."

"Okay." I say reluctantly. "I won't approach him."

"Thank you," Mitali says, satisfied. She knows that's the best she'll get out of me. 

She kisses Penny on the head, and asks her, "Have you all done your fittings for your wedding outfits? Premal said you forgot."

"Did not," Penny says indignantly. "Premal is a filthy liar."

"Shit," I curse, under my breath. "Excuse me." I say, and run off to Ebb to see if she'd be willing to take me to the tailor right now, and keep it a secret from Mitali. "I need to uh, uh,-" I search for a lie, "finish reading my orientation packet." I say lamely. 

I'm sure no one believes I'm missing the end of lunch to read about college, especially on a Thursday. Thursdays are roast beef days, my favorite. I always stay for seconds, and thirds. But I'm out the door before anyone can say a word about it. 

* * *

Ebb, thank heavens, _was_ able to get my suit tailored at the last minute. I guess that's one of the perks of being the First Son. We're all now on a private jet on our way to Britain, and towards my worst nightmare. Baz in a suit. They're always perfectly tailored, so you can tell his body is flawless underneath it, and the cameras love it. He'll be on the cover on every magazine Agatha will buy for the plane ride back. 

Penny's reading a literature book that looks far too thick for me to even consider reading. Which isn't saying much, since I only read comic books and graphic novels. I recognize it as one she bought for her Fiction Writing class this upcoming semester at Georgetown. Agatha's taking a gap year to figure out what she wants to do with her life, but Penny and I are both living in the White House and attending Georgetown in the fall. Though Penny definitely got in on merit, I'm sure I only got in for being the President's adopted son. Agatha's listening to music, mouthing the words to Sweetener with her eyes closed and a slight grin. I can hear Ariana Grande's high voice, even through her rose gold Beats headphones; Agatha blares her music so loud her dad swears she'll be deaf by thirty. Looking at her now, I can remember why I thought I was in love with her when we first met. With her bee stung lips, golden locks, and sweet demeanor, she looks like the human embodiment of destiny. I think they've both taken to solitary activities to avoid hearing me talk about Baz. They had said I could start talking about him on the plane, so they took precautions to avoid actually hearing me talk about him. 

Ebb's smiling warmly at me, and I'm tempted to launch into a Baz rant to her. Ebb's part of our security team, and she's become like family to me since I met her during Mitali's presidential campaign began when I was fourteen. While Penny was totally immersed in the politics of the campaign, and Agatha was more interested in partying, Ebb was my rock. I struggled to get through the endless press events and photo ops and interviews. I always say the wrong thing to the press, my hair is always a mess, and I look so out of place no matter how tailored the suits the team put me in is. I'm not like Penny, who's well-read and informed on the issues, or like Agatha, who is naturally charming and a riot at social events. I stutter and stammer my way through every interview, through every conversation, through _everything_. But, like Penny and Agatha, Ebb has heard everything I have to say about Basilton Pitch, and more. She's kinder about it than Pen and Aggie are, but she's also one to defend the crown prince, and I really don't want to hear anything good about Baz right now. I just want to stew in my annoyance at him.

_Basilton Pitch._ I can't believe I used to think he was cool before I knew what he was really like. Even when we were preteens, Penny followed international politics, and she used to always talk about how cool it would be to be a princess. That's when the fascination with Basilton Pitch came. I thought he was her first crush, at first, until I realized Penny just thought it would be exciting to be born into politics. 'Think of the reforms you could implement', Penny said. Though she was totally against monarchies intellectually, she envied the opportunities to get into politics so young. She would read British tabloids and look at the pictures of the Royal Family, intrigued by their lives.

She grew out of phase by the time we were teenagers, when her mom started letting her help out with her Congressional- and eventually Presidential- offices. I think she thinks of the monarchy as more of a fun social experiment to watch, now. But I still remember the first time I saw a picture of Baz Pitch. I was about twelve, and he was thirteen, and it was a photo of him playing cricket, his bat in motion. He was smiling wider than I've seen him smile since; it made me want to know him for some reason I can't explain. He seemed magnetic.

I met him at the Winter Olympics when I was fifteen. Mitali and Agatha's dad had just won the presidency, and suddenly our social calendar was jam-packed with events that Penny and Agatha thrived at and I sucked at. But I was excited for the Olympics; I understood sports perfectly, so I didn't mess up on one interview that weekend, for once. Plus, and I've never admitted this aloud, I wanted to meet the prince of Britain. Penny's fascination with the royal family may have gone away, but her interest had been a bit contagious, and now I wanted to meet him too. I wanted to meet the boy in the photo.

I gathered all my courage, and went up to introduce myself. I probably looked like a total fool, stuttering and stammering my way through my introduction. He just narrowed his grey eyes at me, and said "I know who you are", and then turned to his security team and said, not as discreetly as he probably meant to, "can you get rid of him?".

That's the day I learned that Basilton Pitch is a dick.

* * *

“I want to be a princess.” Agatha says indignantly, admiring the grand atrium. Even I have to admit it's spectacular; high windowed ceilings, red carpet up to the altar, gold embellishments on the walls. It couldn't be more royal if Dev Grimm came to the altar in a crown. Which, Penny explained, he wouldn't be; he's only royal by marriage, not birth. Natasha Pitch, Baz's mom, was the royal. He's just Baz's cousin on his dad's side. But he allegedly lives in the royal quarters since he's best friends with Baz. I'm not surprised that you'd have to be blood-related and get royal perks to agree to put up with Baz for very long. 

“Then marry Baz.” Penny suggests. I fake gag at the prospect. 

Agatha barks a laugh, and waves Penny off. “No way, I can’t date someone prettier than me.” 

Agatha must really think that. She never admits anyone is prettier than her.

“Agatha,” I say forcefully, fueled with my disgust with her apparent attraction to Baz, “no one’s prettier than you.”

Agatha flips her long blonde hair. “Thanks, Si.” She says happily, mollified by my compliment. She sends me an exaggerated wink. 

I used to think this was flirting. When I first met Agatha when we were eleven, I was obsessed with her. Her father and Mitali were good friends in Congress, and whispering about presidential aspirations. Though, at the time, we were in Texas and Agatha was in California, I was convinced I’d make her my girlfriend. Penny used to tease me about the crush. One night, during the presidential election campaign, she kissed me. I tried to get her to, and to this day I'm mortified to say I phrased it this way, "go steady" with me. That's when I learned what aromantic was. 

“Always, Aggie.” I smile. “Just never compliment Baz Pitch again.”

Her laughter is cut off by the start of the bridal chorus. We all respectfully turn to watch the ceremony.

Dev Grimm comes out, as emotionless as ever. I’m not sure I’ve ever even seen him smile. He’s all hard edges and dry commentary. I would place him as Baz’s cousin anywhere.

Various groomsmen and bridesmaids come down the aisle, with happy smiles to the dozens of cameras snapping shots of them. “I didn’t know women still made their bridesmaids wear ugly dresses.” Penny whispers to Agatha.

“I thought that was a bad cliche.” Agatha whispers back.

“Clearly, not today.” Penny says, nodding her chin at a redheaded girl walking down the aisle in a frilly, piss yellow dress.

I want to laugh, but I end up shushing them, because that's when Baz Pitch comes sauntering down the aisle. I wish I could say he looked bad, but he doesn't. That prick never does. He's wearing a dark green suit- he couldn't dare to be outdone in his fashion choices, even on his own cousin's wedding- and it brings out his sharp grey eyes. His dark olive skin is glowing; his maternal grandmother was an Egyptian princess, and his complexion shows it. He has his long, pitch black hair slicked back, which is my only consolation. He must not know it looks better loose around his face.

His eyes scan the crowd until they find mine, and he sends me a teasing smirk. I scowl back. He grins at me before turning his attention back to the altar.

Princess Phillipa of Monaco walks down the impossibly long aisle. She's very pretty, but I only watch her make her way towards Dev Grimm for a moment before I turn my attention back onto the Best Man. Baz is already looking my way, and when I mouth 'Fuck you' he raises a singular eyebrow, seemingly amused. I flush, and look down to my hands, hearing Mitali's words in my head. 'Be on your best behavior'. Somehow I suspect that doesn't include cursing Baz out in the middle of the wedding. I avoid looking at him for the rest of the ceremony, though I think I can feel his gaze on me on several occasions.

* * *

“I’m sorry, can I cut in?” Baz asks in his posh accent, interrupting in the middle of a song Agatha and I were dancing to. He doesn’t sound sorry, whatsoever. He holds out his hand, and I notice, not for the first time, how perfect his long fingers are. I wonder if he plays the piano. "Can I interest you in a dance, Agatha?"

I scowl at him, but Agatha smiles, and agrees to dance with him. I stomp over to Penny.

“Can you _believe_ that?” I ask, indignantly, pointing at Baz and Agatha.

“That Agatha is dancing? Imagine the _horror.”_ Penny asks sarcastically. Agatha is always dancing at parties. She’s damn good at dancing. So is Baz Pitch, apparently. Of _course_ he is. 

“No!” I yell, annoyed, too loudly. “With Baz!”

Penny shushes me, since several people are now staring at us in rapt interest. I take a deep breathe, and lower my voice when I speak again.

“Penny.” I say, trying to be logical, but probably sounding as bitter as I feel, “You know she doesn’t _like_ him.”

“Duh. Agatha doesn’t _like_ anyone. Maybe she just wants to have sex with him.” Penny says flatly.

I gag, the idea is so repulsive. Penny just laughs again.

“What?” She asks innocently. “He’s sexy.”

“He’s a goddamn vampire.” I respond. God, does he seem like one. His dark hair, his sharp face, his goddamn magnetism. He looks like a damn caricature. "He's that evil, Penny. Murderous vampire level evil."

“He’s just a _boy-_ ” Penny insists, and looks over to Baz and Agatha. “Apparently another boy whose fallen for Agatha’s charm.”

I turn to look at Baz too, and he's already looking at me. He smirks when he catches my eye. A million boys and girls have fallen for Agatha’s charm, and it's hasn't bothered me, not since I was fourteen. But this is _Baz,_ so this time it annoys me enough that my blood boils. He twirls Agatha in an expert movement and she laughs wildly, with her head thrown back. A photographer snaps a picture of them looking picturesque- a member of the White House Trio and a goddamn prince.

“Is anyone else floored by the fact that a girl named _Agatha_ managed to be the world's sexiest person? It’s impressive. It doesn't even lessen her sex appeal by an ounce.” Penny says, interrupting my angry thoughts and changing the subject.

I frown at Penny. “What’s wrong with ‘Agatha’?” 

Penny looks shocked I would even ask. “ _Everything,_ Simon.” She said earnestly, “ _everything.”_

_“_ You're being a jerk about one of your best friends.” I say with a frown. It was her grandmother's name, I think. 

“Totally.” Penny admits. "I've said this to her face, too, Simon. It's not my fault that her name is _Agatha.”_

Luckily, by this time, the song was over, so I don't have to defend Agatha’s name anymore. “Hey.” I say in a friendly voice to Agatha. Maybe I can convince her to step out for some air, get her away from Baz. "What was that?" I ask.

"If a prince asks you to dance, Simon, it's beyond impolite to say no." Agatha says. She's attempting to raise an eyebrow, but she's not good at it. Not like Baz is.

"Say no next time." I respond petulantly.

"Jealousy isn't a cute color on you. It doesn't go with your complexion." Penny says. 

"I'm not jealous!" I say, exasperated. And I'm not. Not of Baz. "I just think it's a bad idea."

"Getting good press for positive international relations is a bad idea?" Agatha asks, teasingly. I pray she doesn't mean relations in the biblical sense. 

"No, it's just- ugh- he's a prick!" I stammer, trying to get them on my side.

"Honestly, Si." Agatha says gently. "He's not. He's perfectly polite."

"That's what he wants you to think." I respond, mutinously. 

Agatha just rolls her eyes. "Give him a chance, for once."

I down the champagne glass in my hand to avoid answering that ridiculous suggestion.

* * *

I've downed another two more glasses of champagne before I get the balls to approach the Prince. I'm walking over to where he is, not knowing what I'm going to say, but knowing I need to say _something._ He's by the food, though I haven't seen him eat once tonight. He's just looking at it, bored.

"Baz," I snap at him, annoyed already, though he hasn't even said a word. I thought that I'd try to be nice, but that's not possible when I'm looking at his sharp cheekbones and perfect eyebrows. 

“Fancy seeing you here, Snow.” Baz responds, falsely polite.

“Fuck you.” I responded, sharply, forgetting my promise to Mitali. He always calls me by my last name, like we're football mates or something. I know he plays, and he's damn good at it, too. We were on opposite teams at a charity game, and he was running circles around me.

“Arguing so soon, darling?” He asks sarcastically. "I can’t believe this.”

I growl, but it only deepens his smirk. 

"Leave us alone." I demand antagonistically.

He barks his laugh of response, quickly throwing his hand to his mouth to cover his loud outburst of amusement. "I'm trying." He says, with an edge to his voice I can't pin down.

"Don't ask Agatha to dance." I say, trying to be specific.

"Jealous?" He asks, with one eyebrow raised. "Didn't know she was your girl." His tone tells me that he thinks she is. There's a lot of speculation about Agatha and I being 'A Thing', since she takes me as a date to a lot of her social events. I wanted to deny the rumors outright, but the press team thinks it's good for people to speculate. It makes us intriguing, and intriguing is good for Mitali's ratings. 

"She's not." I respond. I don't even _want_ her to be. I just don't want her to be with Baz. "She's my family, so leave her alone."

Baz guffaws, and I've never heard such a sound from him. I'm torn between amusement and shock, and I'm not sure which is shown on my face as Baz stares at me. "You're the most interesting bastard to ever live in the White House, you know that?"

I know the hurt flashes on my face. I can never hide it. Orphan Snow, the charity case. It's the lowest blow there is, one the Rupublican media isn't afraid to throw my way. Though, Baz has never actually gone for it before now, so I'm surprised he just did. I don't know why I am; I should have learned never to underestimate him. 

"Fuck. Straight. Off." I say through gritted teeth. "Just because I'm adopted, doesn't mean I don't belong here." I don't even believe the words as they come out of my mouth, but I say them, anyways. Say the words I've heard from Penny a hundred times. "America has blended families, okay? We're not all inbred like yours." Okay, the last part might not have been from Penny.

Basilton Pitch looks shocked. I don't know why; I always bite back. "Snow, I-" he starts, but his uneasy tone makes my skin crawl, so I interrupt him.

"So stop trying to fuck with Agatha. I know you don't have a heart, so don't even pretend with me, okay? Just stay the fuck away." My words taste bitter in my mouth, too harsh. But I want to get my point across so I throw my shoulders back, like I mean it. 

"Do you ever consider the fact," Basilton starts, in a low, measured voice, "that _you_ always seek _me_ out, and never the other way around?"

I bluster through my response. I don't really have one. It's true- it's what Penny and Agatha were just telling me yesterday. My embarrassment makes Baz smirk.

"Just a thought. We'd probably never fight if you weren't so obsessed with me." Baz smiles at me with all his teeth. It's so charmingly handsome I want to punch him. I compromise, and just grab his forearm when he tries to walk away, so I have time to come up with a response. 

I pull too hard, and he tries to get me off him immediately. It makes him stumble back, and lose his balance. So badly, that he topples over, and I fall with him.

It happens in slow motion. Baz's back hitting the cake. Me falling on top Baz. The expensive cake hitting the floor in what feels like slow motion. The moment of silence as the party guests take in what just happened. The clicks of camera documenting the humiliating moment.

"Holy fucking shit." Baz whispers. "You really did it, now, Snow."

I can't help but agree with him.

* * *

"How many requests did I have for you?" Mitali asks me, in the Oval Office. Penny came for support even though she 'does not actually support me'. I was upset with her for not taking my side in the latest Baz and Simon argument, but I have to say lying and pretending she does for her mom makes it up for me.

"Look, Baz pushed him," Penny says, so earnestly you would think she believed it. God. I promise you, in any universe, in any dimension, she's my best friend. Just last night she was criticizing me for my poor actions, and now she's defending me to the President of the United States. That's ride or die.

"I saw the film, sweetheart, and it looks like Simon pushed Basilton!" Mitali argues, annoyed.

"That's what he _wants_ you to think." I respond, annoyed. 

Mitali looks incredulous. "Okay, let me process this. Now, you think the Prince can _manipulate video evidence?_ That's what you're saying, right?"

Okay, I wouldn't put it that way.

"Mom," I say, knowing it usually softens her.

"Don't 'Mom' me," she starts, and then looks guilty. "I mean, always 'Mom' me, but don't 'Mom' me to manipulate me, kiddo." she says, knowingly. "I love you, Simon, but you're just _wrong_ on this. And it's hurting me politically." She throws down a magazine, and the cover quote is "First Son Simon Snow damaging British-American relations by long-standing feuding with Prince Basilton."

Fuck. He didn't know the press had caught on. Though, _duh_. Ruining the cake at the royal wedding is a pretty public 'fuck you' to Britain.

"I'm sorry," I choke out. Did I damage the upcoming election? Did I really fuck Mitali over that badly?

Mitali already has a hard time of it. She was such a long-shot in the first place. A Democrat from Texas winning the presidency? The first woman to win the presidency? And on top of that, a woman of color? She defied all odds. She's just that good.

And I may have fucked it up with a schoolboy rivalry. 

Mitali grabs my hand, probably sensing my panic. "Hunny," she says affectionately, "It's okay. I just need you to end this feud."

"How?" I ask.

"Pretend to be best friends." My heart stops in confusion. 

_“How?”_ I ask again after a beat.

"Play this off as some friendly rough-housing gone wrong. Say you're really thick as thieves, so this looks like an accident." 

"It _was_ an accident." I say earnestly.

Mitali sighs. “I know. But we need to do damage control. I’m sending you over to England for the weekend. Just don’t insult him publicly.” Mitali waves her arm. “Scratch that. Just don’t insult him at all.”

“At _all?_ ” I gape at her. I don’t know how I’m going to manage _that._

“At. All.” Mitali responds, and her tone is final. I know better than to argue, now.

“Okay.” I say, defeated. “What exactly do you want me to do?"


	2. Act like you like me!

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Baz has to deal with the consequences of the Cake Debacle

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> ok, i'm sorry this took uncharacteristically long for me (compared to my posting speed of I See You), but I was on vacation and will be starting law school in 2 weeks (!!!!) so I'm going to be going slower on this one than my last. Bear with me, and enjoy Chapter 2 :)
> 
> ALSO: tw for homophobia and self harm (both will be a topic in this fic but I will not be getting graphic, and if I use a slur I will warn you all beforehand)

**Baz**

I really should have known that if I played with fire, I was going to get burned.

“This isn’t _fair_ ,” I complain to Dev, who's raiding my pantry looking for Jaffa Cakes. I’m laying on top of a 16th century dining table, spread eagle on my back, like the dramatic gay I am.

“I think it’s more than fair,” Dev says in his unaffected voice. “Phillipa’s still cross with you, you know.”

“Did you defend me?” I ask.

“Nope. Threw you all the way under the bus. Told her that you’re just a prat.”

“Niall, are you hearing this!?” I exclaim, sitting up to look to see if he’s as offended as I am. He’s not. He’s just playing video games on my couch with an intensity that is, frankly, borderline alarming. 

“Sorry, mate. You dug this grave yourself.” He says, not bothering to look away from the screen. “Only fair that you lie in it. Just be grateful you get to lie in it with Simon Snow.”

I make an indignant noise. “My two best friends! Traitors!” I yell.

“You created an _international incident_ at _my wedding_ because you can’t deal with your feelings for a boy you are regularly and systematically cruel to, and _we’re_ the problem?” Dev deadpans, still searching for the Jaffa Cakes.

I pause, recognizing the truth of that statement. “Yes,” I finally say.

“Baz Bitch Alert- Oh, fuck! Where did that zombie come from?!” Niall yells, still half in this conversation and half in his Call of Duty game.

I sigh. Baz Bitch Alert is their code for when I’m being Too Much. Since I am very regularly being Too Much, they only use it on occasions where I’m _really_ pushing it.

I look at Dev, who isn’t even really very mad at me for destroying his ten thousand pound wedding cake, and sigh. I walk over to the kitchen island, and lean over it. “Dev, if I tell you where my secret Jaffa Cake stash is, will you forgive me for causing a scene at your wedding?” I know this isn’t adequate, but I’m not very good at apologies. Dev will know this is one, though.

He pauses, considering. “Maybe.”

“Second drawer on my night stand in my bedroom.”

“Aces,” He says, and smiles the way he never does in public. He’ll never admit it, but he’s insecure about his crooked smile, and hates seeing it in photographs. He goes to my bedroom, calling over his shoulder, “You were already forgiven, but thanks for the treats, mate!”

I roll my eyes. Figures.

I plop next to Niall on the couch. He’s just lost his round, and he lets out an exaggerated groan of defeat. 

“Wanna play in two-player mode?” I offer, and he hands me a controller. 

We play in silence for only a moment, before he interrupts it. “I don’t know what you’re so upset about, Baz. He’s going to be staying at the palace this weekend. I thought you’d be stoked to see him.”

Usually, I am. Our paths usually cross at least a half dozen times a year- partially because I purposefully attend events that I know he’ll be at- and I always get this nervous excitement every time I get to see him. But at all those events, I only had to exchange a few words with him, slim to none of which are polite. This weekend, I have to spend the entire time with him, pretending we’re best mates. 

I shouldn’t have provoked him at the wedding. But he was ignoring me… and he never ignores me. Whenever we’re in the same room together, his blue eyes follow me wherever I go. It’s exhilarating, knowing that I affect him as much as he affects me, even if it’s not in the way I want. With Snow, I’ll take what I can get.

Except, last Saturday, I was getting _nothing._ Other than when I was walking down the aisle, the moment he mouthed ‘fuck you’ to me- which, _gladly_ \- he was avoiding eye contact like I was Medusa. Asking Agatha Wellbelove to dance was a risky move- especially since I force myself to _never_ make the first move with him, lest he suspect how much I orbit around him- but I had run out of options. The American media is always gossiping about the two of them, whether they’re an item or not. I wasn’t sure whether they were; I’ve never seen them so much as hold hands. They’re always dancing together at events, but he dances with Bunce too, and she’s his adopted sister. I thought it was worth a try to ask her to dance to see if that’s what it took to get him to talk to me. It worked- I had won his attention back. It provoked me to no end that it was only because I was dancing with a girl he cares about, but a closeted gay royal virgin has to take what he can get.

But then he thought I was trying to insult his parentage and adopted status, and I didn’t know how to talk my way out of it without going soft on him. So, I went to my default- doubling down on being a right prick. I should have just stayed in my own goddamn lane.

“Ugh.” I respond, noncommittally. Though, I felt it an accurate assessment of the situation.

“Don’t ugh us,” Dev says, plopping down with a handful of Jaffa Cakes and handing us each one, keeping three for himself. “What did your father say you had to do exactly again?”

Just thinking of that conversation has got me flushed.

“That bad?” Niall asks, picking up on the fact that I rarely turn red. When you are raised in the spotlight from birth, you learn to get thick skin. Somehow, Snow always manages to penetrate it.

I saw him for the first time when I was fourteen. I was watching Panic! At The Disco music videos like the closeted gay teenager I am, when I went so far down the YouTube rabbit hole that I stumbled upon an interview of the First Son to Be Simon Snow. He blushed and stammered his way through the entire three minutes and forty two seconds. I was immediately hooked. His endearing shy awkwardness, the slight Southern lilt to his voice, his gorgeous constellation of moles. I’ve never believed in love at first sight, but I swear that was the closest thing to it. I promised myself I’d make a good impression when I met him.

I fucked that up, naturally. It was the Winter Olympics, and I thought I’d impress him with my vast sports knowledge. I was planning my opening line when _he_ came up to _me._ His handler must have told him to. He was even better looking in person. I panicked, and made Ms. Possibelf, my security guard, get rid of him. I regretted it immediately, but what was done was done.

He was never that nice to me again. He was antagonistic, _always_. It’s equal parts annoying and hot. His angry face is sexy- I can’t help but want to see it again, even if it means making him angry at me. I wank to that thought, sometimes, Snow riled up, frustrated….

“Baz?” Niall says, voice insistent. 

“Oh. He was himself about it.” I reply. There really isn’t anything else to say. My Father is always non responsive when I hint at the gay thing.

The Gay Thing is obvious to anyone who really knows me. My mum definitely would have picked it up by now.

‘Why do you have to antagonize that boy, Basilton?’ My dad asked, and I answered honestly, affected by the champagne I had with Niall to get away from the Cake Debacle. ‘He’s too pretty,’ I responded. That’s the truth, anyways, and drunk me can be a little too honest. I mumbled it quietly, but not quietly enough. My dad turned scarlet at the mention of it. ‘Pretend to be friends with him for the media, or I’m kicking you out of the palace,’ he promised. I’m not sure if he means it, but I’m not exactly about to find out.

“Sorry, mate,” Niall says. He sounds sorry, and it makes me uncomfortable, so I try to joke my way out of this.

“Maybe I should off him this weekend. Kill my gay thoughts in their tracks. I mean, is America really as powerful as they pretend to be? I think we could take them in Round Two.”

Niall is saved by answering my nonsense by an insistent knock on the door.

“Mordelia?” I ask, knowingly. No one else borderline breaks the door down like she does.

“Open the door, Baz!” She yells in her shrill voice.

“What’s the magic word?” I ask, teasingly, already getting up to answer the door.

“Now!” She screams, even though she knows full well the magic word is please. I open the door for her anyways.

“Hello, darling,” I say sarcastically as she pushes her way in.

“You’re in the news,” she starts without any preamble.

“Yeah, that happens. I’m a prince,” I deadpan.

“You’re in the news with your boy,” she says knowingly.

The fact that an eight year old can articulate the fact that I’m gay, but my own father can’t, is quite frankly ridiculous, but this is my life, I guess.

“I don’t have a boy,” I say, playing dumb. Mordelia doesn’t buy it.

“If you don’t have a crush on Simon Snow, then I’m not Mordelia Grimm.”

“Maybe you’re not,” I retort flatly. “Maybe you were dropped off on the steps of the palace. It would explain your manners.”

“Do you want the news or not?” She asks insistently, a hand on her hip and a hand on the gossip magazine. It’s turned around, so I can’t read the cover headlines, just an advertisement for some expensive hair product. Typical Mordelia.

“Fine,” I finally say. “Let me see.”

She slaps the People Magazine down as dramatically as possible on the coffee table for us to read. ‘Simon Snow, on a plane to visit his BFF!’, it says. Of course we spilled the story to People beforehand. He looks gorgeous, as always. One hand on the private plane door, other through his bronze hair. “Your BFF is coming.” She deadpans.

She’s way too young to have mastered sarcasm. Though, somehow, she has.

“Happy days,” I reply, my tone aiming for bored and sarcastic, though the effect is lessened by my clear bitterness.

“We have plans to go horseback riding Saturday morning,” she reminds me.

“I know.”

“Don’t ditch me,” she says, serious as ever. Then, she marches out the front door.

“Honestly,” Dev says, “she scares me.”

“Honestly,” I say, unpausing the video game, “same.”

* * *

His hair is a mess.

That’s all I can think when he comes out of the black Suburban. That there’s no way Simon Snow brushed his hair this morning.

“I had to sign a pretty intense NDA,” Snow says with narrowed eyes as he walks up to me, false grin still plastered onto his face. “Are you going to murder me?”

“Am I going to murder you?” I deadpan, smiling back. I clap him on the shoulder in a show of false joviality. “Am I, heir to the throne, going to incite a war with the most bloodthirsty country in the world? And, in preparation, create legal paperwork documenting our connection so that I won’t have any plausible deniability of our personal acquaintance?”

I mean, I definitely joked about it a couple days ago. Sometimes Snow says these weirdly insightful things to me, like he can really see me. I don’t like that thought, considering he very much doesn’t like what he sees.

He pauses for a moment, before answering, earnestly, “Yes.” 

“You are unbelievable.” I did not know my type was idiots, but here we are. Well, I guess I did. My type is pretty singular: _Simon Snow_. “If you were dead, who would my best mate be?” I ask sarcastically.

He scowls at me, cameras be damned. Luckily we have our back turned now, so they likely won’t get a shot of his pouting. I keep my smile on, just in case, though.

“Did you have to sign an NDA?” He asks suspiciously.

I blink at him, wondering if he’s serious. Then, I remember who I’m speaking to. “I’m the prince of England.” 

“So?” He says.

“So, I don’t need to sign an NDA.” I respond, matter of factly. Non-disclosure is second nature to both royals and Grimms.

“Well, then why do I have to?” He exclaims, exasperated, “I’m the First Son.”

“Yeah, for what, another few years?” I turn my nose up at him. “I’m the prince forever.”

He’s trying to hide it, but he’s seething. He looks so hot when he’s mad that I just can’t resist riling him up, especially during this limited time we don’t have ears on us, so I go on. “How am I to know you aren’t planning to write a scandalous tell-all when your meager fame begins to twindle?”

He splutters, “I- I- would never, I-”, and I interrupt.

“I apologize, I forgot who I was speaking to. You can barely string a sentence together, let alone write an entire _book_.”

Snow looks like he it’s physically painful for him to refrain from insulting me. The President must have given him explicit orders not to further cause damage to their reputation. 

We make it to the doors, and I turn to Possibelf. “Can you show him to his rooms, please?” I look at him meaningfully, “To change?”

He scowls, looking down at his wrinkled clothing. It’s obvious he must have tried to sleep on the plane by his appearance, and it’s clear from his frown he wasn’t originally planning to change. 

“What are you waiting for, an itinerary?” I think it’ll annoy him into a response, but he just huffs and follows Ms. Possibelf.

Pity. It’s no fun when he doesn’t fight back.

“Got a bathroom?” I hear him ask Ms. Possibelf.

“Only 75,” she replies with her signature dry humor. I laugh to myself, because she’s probably only off by one or two.

In an hour, we’re walking out to the car for our first interview. 

He’s got a false smile on for the paparazzi as he comes out of the car. It annoys me more than I’d like to admit that I’m never in the presence of his real smile, the one I see him give to his family and the Wellbeloves and pretty much most everyone but me. It might just be in my head, but I think I hear the _click, click, click_ , of the cameras as we walk over, though I logically must know they’re too far to hear. I flash a fake smile, one I know is more convincing than his, in the direction of the photographers.

“How do you do that?” He whispers when we’re in the car, and then curses softly below his breath, like he didn’t mean to speak.

“Do what?”

“Pretend.” He says, simply. The way he’s phrased it shouldn’t make sense, but I know exactly what he’s getting at immediately. The fact that he’s cut down to my core so quickly, though, the fact that he knows I’m pretending, cuts me in a fresh way I hadn’t anticipated.

“Practice makes perfect,” I respond sarcastically. It’s the truth, though. That from the minute my mum died when I was eight, I have been pretending. It’s just that everything has hurt. Not having a mother hurts. Being internationally famous hurts. Being closeted hurts. Everything isn’t the way I want it to be, and there’s nothing to do but pretend.

I was ten when I perfected my fake smile. I avoided cameras, avoided everything before then. But I couldn’t avoid anymore when my father got remarried, so it was time to seem Okay.

The depression symptoms had already started, but I wasn’t allowed to talk about them then. I finally got a therapist by fifteen, because I was hurting myself, and I couldn’t explain away my scars forever. My handlers were just too aware I needed help.

Simon looks at me curiously, and I’m afraid that by the look on my face, I’ve given too much of myself away. I know he was given a file on me to review before he got here, but I'm assuming it's just all on boring details, like the books and movies my publicists say are my favorites. Not on the fact that I'm secretly a little crazy and that I'm gay for him. 

His file had a bunch of information I already known from my stalking of him. His favorite color's blue. His favorite movie is Die Hard. His favorite book is the Archie Comics (which is, both, so ridiculous considering that's a _comic_ book, and so painfully heterosexual considering half the plot is two hot girls fighting over the all-American main character that might as well be Snow). Though, I did learn that he likes to bake, which is actually quite endearing.

My traitorous brain supplies me with a mental image of him in an apron, and then I can't look at him for the rest of the car ride.

* * *

Someone’s done Simon’s hair for the interview. I almost liked it better messy. Though there’s something undeniably appealing about his styled curls. 

We’re backstage, with only two minutes to go before the live show. I’ve done too many public appearances in my life to be very phased, and I thought Simon would be the same way. Except, right now, he’s breathing loudly, nervously, like he’s about to go into battle, and not Good Morning Britain.

“Calm down, Snow,” I hiss, because his nerves are almost contagious. It’s like my body wants to absorb his shakiness in my own hands.

“I don’t like interviews,” he whispers back harshly.

“Why?” I ask. He’s always so charming in them.

“Because I fucking suck at them, prick.” His eyes widen as he insults me, like he didn’t mean to, but just couldn’t help himself. I know the feeling. I can’t help my mouth when I’m around him. “Sorry,” he mutters, looking around like he’s waiting for the Punked crew to pop out and yell ‘Aha!’, catching us in our fake friendship.

“You’ll be fine,” I answer, honestly, “just be yourself.”

“One, how would you know? And two, being myself got me into this mess.” He growls, and I’m pissed, because giving me a half boner before we go on national television should be treason, punishable by death.

“One,” I say, and I can tell by the fact that I’m turned on is impairing my judgement before I speak, “you’re goddamn _fine_ in interviews.” I’m embarrassed, but my mouth keeps moving. “Two,” I press on, reverting to insults as to not reveal myself any more, “You got yourself into this mess by being a ticking time bomb who pushed the prince of a foreign nation into a wedding cake. But I’m sure you can manage a simple morning interview. You’re not a complete imbecile.”

He clenches his jaw, and it’s his signal he’s readying himself for a fight. I love this look, because I’m a masochist monster.

“Basilton,” He says, in a sickenly sweet voice that doesn’t match the tension in his body. He doesn’t usually say my full name, and I didn’t expect to like it so much. “We’re best friends, aren’t we?”

My best friends are Dev and Niall, and their default is not to talk to me through gritted teeth.

“Of course, love.” I adore calling him pet names sarcastically. I’d never get the chance any other way.

“Then let me tell the story of how we met.” He says, and his smile is wolfish. Mine falters. I’ve never seen Scheming Simon, and I don’t know if I love this version of him, because I have no idea _what_ this version is.

I hear the ‘ _three, two, one_ ’, and Simon’s walking out before I can think of a cheeky reply. The hosts are politely kind, welcoming me to the show and Simon to Britain. Simon’s smiling, but not in the self-conscious way I’m used to seeing when I watch him on YouTube.

“How are you liking it over the Atlantic, Simon?” Piers Morgan asks with a teasing lilt to his voice.

“Oh, it’s dandy,” Simon replies, apparently pleased as punch. “Basil is an excellent tour guide.”

I am a shit tour guide, but I smile like I know where Simon’s going with this.

“Oh really?” Susanna Reid asks curiously.

“Oh, yes!” Simon says enthusiastically, and I’d believe him if I didn’t know better. “Baz and I have hung out a bunch of times since we met at the Winter Olympics after my mom was elected.”

My stomach sinks, and I force my face to keep its friendliness. Is he about to tell the world what an insufferable wanker I am? I’ve kept a very upstanding reputation in the press. Top of my class at Eton, football star, violin and piano player. Every bit the image of a prince. (Of course, except for the fact that I’m as gay as they come, but the magazines don’t know about that.)

“Anyways… Baz was going on and on about how much of a fan he was of me and how he wanted to be friends, so it was pretty instant!” Simon has a shit-eating grin, like he’s found out that he’s to be Ashton Kutcher’s replacement in Punked, and I realize this was his scheme.

The lie is so childish, and I’d find it pathetic if anyone else did it. But the problem is if he replaced friend with boyfriend, he’s gotten the situation exactly right. I can tell by his delighted expression he hasn’t worked out my feelings- he’s just not that cruel, even to me. But this is still an awfully embarrassing moment.

Then, he holds out his hand to _fistbump._ Oh my Fucking God, he can’t get any straighter. I lift up my knuckles and bring them to his like this Bro Move isn’t physically painful for me.

I keep my cool interview persona on- it would be suspicious if I, with all my press training, _didn’t-_ and I retort, “Yeah, and Simon was just dying to meet me, so it all worked out perfectly.” Part of me’s willing the words to have been true, the other part of me is nauseated by this entire interview, and maybe by my entire life.

Simon’s blushing slightly, and it only gives me some small vindication. 

The interviews move on to the ‘Cake Debacle’, a phrase Piers Morgan actually uses, the prick. I expertly pass it off as mates being mates, and Snow jumps in to say that’s just the way we are, especially on the football pitch. Except he calls it soccer, and has to be corrected. (My ancestors would roll in their graves to see me besotted over such an _American_.) Cue more blushing from him.

The interview’s pretty painless after that. Charities we’re involved in, Snow starting university. Just small talk, until we’re finally ushered off stage with smiles like we’ve just won an award. Mine drops the moment we’re off camera, with the only thought in my head being, _this is going to be even harder than I thought._  
  
  


**Notes for the Chapter:**

> that chapter was so. damn. hard. to write. And Baz usually comes naturally to me, so idk what my damage was this time around. Part of it was my mom jumping down my throat every time I used my phone while in Mexico, so I couldn't get a flow going (yeah, let's blame it on that). Anyways, comment if you liked this! (and I guess if you didn't, but be gentle)


	3. Nutso Family Stuff

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Simon meets Baz’s family

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> My self imposed deadline for this was two days ago but I am a Disappointment sooooo.... here this is now!!! Hope you all enjoy :)

**Simon**

“Remember when we were twelve, and I sent a Valentine’s Gram to Katie Evans? And then she asked me to meet her out by the bleachers for a surprise, and the surprise was that she viciously rejected me and I started to cry and Blair Van Marter was recording the whole thing and sent it to the entire middle school cheerleading team? That’s what it was like, but on an international level.” I say to her over FaceTime, sitting on the kitchen islands in the royal guest suite. She’s got her thick eyebrows raised, and she has since I said ‘Valentine’s Gram’.

“Simon, that is not a fair comparison.” Penny says sternly.

“You should have seen him off air. It was even worse than usual.” I whine.

Baz is never thrilled to see me, but he was especially incensed this time around. Insulting me constantly, no matter how much I ignored him. Looking at me like I was a foreign species. I mean, at least he didn’t mention Agatha. I guess I’m forced to take the small victories where I can get them.

“Maybe you shouldn’t have teased him on live television.” Penny suggests.

I groan. I have no idea why I thought that was a good idea at the time. I just wanted it to get under his skin. But it barely phased him, and he threw it right back in my face.

“I’m going to need you to be on my side on this one, because, right now, I am definitely _not._ ”

Penny huffs indignantly. “I am _always_ on your side. Remember what I did to Katie and Blair? And the rest of the cheer team?”

I snort. Penelope Bunce, daughter of a well-respected Congresswoman, punched those two girls in the face, got all the videos deleted (so, thank God, they never ended up on the internet), _and_ managed to blackmail them into never snitching on her. Plus, there was that whole thing where the entire cheerleading team got food poisoning before the last pep rally. I have no clue how she did it. I'm not even sure if I want to know. “I could never forget. You’re going to make an excellent politician.”

“Damn straight,” Penny smirks, obviously pleased with herself and my compliment.

“I, on the other hand, will be a professional court jester to the royal family by the end of this weekend.” I say with a heavy sigh. Penny snorts.

“Please, have you read the comments on the videos?”

“Penny. Rule number one is to _never_ read the comments.”

“You’re a wuss. They’re all phenomenal. They’re loving the new bromance. Some are even speculating it’s a budding _romance_.” Penny wiggles her eyebrows suggestively. I choke on my spit.

“Please. As if Baz Pitch would touch me with a ten foot pole. He wouldn’t do it to save the human race. The arrogant bastard wouldn't even do it to save _himself_.” I try to laugh, but it’s too loud. I think it’s as off and high-pitched to my own ears as it is to Penny’s, because she’s raising her brows again.

“Hmm, you said nothing about _you_ not being into it.”

“That was clearly _implied_!” I argue.

"Was it? Where?"

I’m about to continue arguing my case for this, but I hear two voices approaching my suite. I’m not sure if not recording the palace was in my NDA. Honestly, I only really skimmed it.

“Gotta go, Pen,” I say quickly and hit the 'end call' button. I hear the beginning of her response, “Si, wai-”, before the Facetime is disconnected. I shove my phone in my pocket just as a dark haired woman bursts into the room.

She’s slim and tall, with one hand on her hip and one hand on the door she failed to knock at. She’s got razor sharp cheekbones, dark olive skin, and wild black locks with two shocking white streaks in the front. Her eyes are wild and young, like she’s a 20 year old rocker and not a 35 year old princess.

I’d recognize her as Baz’s aunt anywhere, even if I hadn’t seen a hundred pictures of the infamous Fiona Pitch.

“Hey, Snow.” She says, smacking her gum in a way I’m sure the stuffy King Malcolm wouldn’t approve of. But I guess you’re allowed to do whatever you want when you’re the heir next in line when your sister dies, but you defer to the surviving husband who's not actually of royal bloodline. He owes her one. Maybe she has some kind of top secret royal contract that says she’s allowed to do whatever the fuck she wants in exchange for refusing to appoint herself Queen of England. “Got any snacks?”

“Fiona,” I hear a familiar voice growl behind her. I feel heat flush my cheeks when Baz Pitch appears at the door in a worn green heather T-shirt and plaid flannel pajama pants. It’s so domestic, I’m uncomfortable. It’s wild to see a prince as sharp as Baz in cotton PJs with his long hair tied in a bun.

“Uh, sure.” I say, considering the fact this is their palace and not mine. I think the question was just a pleasantry. I'm not sure if it's legal to say no to a royal.

She smiles at me, and saunters over to the fridge. When she opens it, she laughs. “God, the staff has such a sense of humor. Apple pie. Get it? ‘Cause he’s American as apple pie!”

I look to Baz, who's dramatically rolling his eyes, even though his aunt’s back is to him. Then he turns to me, and an indecipherable look crosses his face. “You’re wearing glasses, Snow.”

“Uh...yeah,” I say, self-consciously re-adjusting them, as if Baz could unsee me wearing them. The flawless git probably has 20/20. I’m waiting for the insult to come, but he’s still looking at me with an unreadable expression. I’m about to ask him what his problem is, when Fiona raises her voice, interrupting my thoughts.

“Where are they… where are they…. aha!” Fiona yelps victoriously. She holds the box of HoHos- of which I’ve already devoured half- above her head like a trophy. “You were right Basilton, they did stock him with HoHos since they’re his favorite.”

I whip my head around to Baz, who is glaring at Fiona like she is the human embodiment of improper grammar (which he must hate venomously, given how often he likes to correct mine). He stiffens when I look at him. “It was in your stupid file,” he mutters to me, without looking away from Fiona.

Ah, the file. That thing confirmed what I already knew: Baz Pitch is the most pretentious asshole of all time. Who the fuck actually likes A Tale of Two Cities so much that it’s their favorite book? Who in their right mind in the 21st century lists Mozart as their favorite artist? Did he say his favorite TV Show is Downton Abbey just to be a caricature of a British person?

“That’s why you told the kitchens to stock him with them?” Fiona asks.

“I did no such thing.” He says with a scoff and his arms crossed.

Fiona just laughs at him before turning to me. “So, how are you holding up, pretty boy?” She asks, leaning on the counter unwrapping her HoHo.

“Uh-” I respond nervously, searching for something to say. Fiona is very intimidating.

Baz saves me from answering, though. “You got what you wanted, let’s _go_.” He insists.

“Chill out Baz Bitch, we’re going.” Fiona says, and Baz flushes a little at the nickname. I refrain from laughing about it (at least until I recount this to Penny and Agatha when I get home). “See you _later_ , Simon.” Fiona has a mischievous glint and a Pitch smirk on her face that makes me nervous to see what she has planned for later. I just give her a grin that makes Baz scowl even more. Baz slams the door behind them.

I think about calling Penny back to tell her all about the princess and prince's visit, but the long day of press has me feeling exhausted, so I just pass out in the elegant king-sized bed in my guest room.

* * *

I wake up to loud knocking on my door. I groan loudly and try to ignore it, but my guest is persistent. I glance at the clock and see it’s only 7:00 a.m. Who the hell wants my attention this early? I’m not supposed to be ready for the charity thing with Baz until 11:00.

I throw the door open to my suite, not caring that I’m still in my Rick and Morty pajama pants (Agatha got Penny and me hooked). Standing at the door, with her little hand raised as if to continue banging on the door, is a little girl. She’s got her long dark hair in pigtail braids, and she hasn’t quite grown into her big Angelina Jolie lips yet. Just like Fiona Pitch was last night, this girl is recognizable by her relation to Baz and media photographs.

“Uh, hello.” I say to Mordelia Grimm, who's dressed in a navy polka dotted long sleeve tucked into light tan riding pants. She’s got a small blue helmet tucked into the crook of her arm.

“Hi, Simon,” she greets me with a sweet smile like we’re old friends. “Would you like to go horseback riding with me?”

“I, uh-” I’m surprised by the offer. “I don’t know how.”

I thought this would discourage the girl, but she just smiles brighter. “I can teach you! My coaches say I’m a natural.” She says proudly.

I’m not sure how to say no to a little royal girl while literally in Buckingham, so I agree, excusing myself to change.

As we’re walking towards the stables, I see a figure with long dark hair pulled back in the distance. I freeze.

“Uh, Mordelia?” I interrupt her as she’s giving me her opinion on the new Lion King movie. “Is Baz here?”

She smiles. “Oh yes! He joins me at least once a week! He’s a great big brother.”

I want to leave, but, well, I can’t exactly back out now that he's spotted me.

Baz does not look happy to see me this morning (though, when does he ever?). He looks like a fairytale prince, in white riding pants, black leather boots, and a navy blazer. “Mordy,” He says in a tone that tells me he’s holding himself back from getting angry with her. I guess even Baz Pitch has boundaries, and I guess yelling at his 8 year old sister in front of company is where he draws the line. “You picked up a stray?”

“Basil,” she says with a smile, apparently obvious to Baz’s annoyance. “You didn’t take it upon yourself to invite our guest, and I decided to correct your rudeness.”

Baz’s jaw clenches. “Heathen.” He replies, and Mordelia smiles mischievously. I’m now thinking Mordelia may not be as innocent as she looks. Quite frankly, she looks like she might be spending a bit of time with Fiona.

“He needs to gear up.” She says to him meaningfully.

“You do it. He’s your guest.” He says with a frown.

“Nope.” She says, popping the ‘p’, and smiling. “Mum says that since Bonnie’s my horse, I need to give her breakfast myself every morning.” And with that, she turns on her heel and runs to the other side of the stables.

It’s awkward for a moment. Then, Baz lets out a sigh of resignation, and says, “let’s go, Snow.”

He leads me into the back room of the stables, where every wall is adorned with an abundance of riding gear. "You can't wear those," Baz says, looking at my black converse distastefully. He hands me tan leather boots; I don't bother wondering how he knows my size, I just put the below the knee high shoes on. Then, he hands me a black helmet, leather knee padding, and leather gloves, and I awkwardly dress in them as he does too. Except, when he's done, he looks like he should be on the cover of Vogue Paris- again. His get-up is quite tight-fitting, and it conjures up an image of him at a polo match last year, bouncing on a horse with a fierce look of concentration on his face. I remember thinking that this must be the English equivalent of girls liking football players; girls here must swoon over Baz's posh ability to ride a horse. On the other hand, while Baz looks like an English daydream, I look like a seven year old boy playing dress up. Typical.

He leads me to where the horses are, and walks straight over to a gorgeous white horse whose stable has a wooden name sign that says 'Tasha' on it. He starts murmuring softly to her, and I'm about to get closer to hear what exactly Baz has to say to a horse, when I hear Mordelia call my name. I turn, and she's got a brown and white horse saddled up to her side. She looks so physically tiny next to the horse; except, her personality and confidence can fill a room, so I'm not surprised the beast is looking at her obediently.

"Simon, would you mind watching Bonnie while I get you a horse? I'll saddle Mr. Darcy for you real quick and bring him to you." Mordelia says, already handing me the horse leash. I take it, agreeing with an "uh, sure", and Mordelia jogs over to a big black horse.

I'm not quite sure what to do with Mordelia's horse, and I reckon I'm looking at the creature like it's an alien, because Baz says, in a tone of condescending incredulity, "Oh god, do you not know how to ride a horse?"

He's looking at me like he has just found out I don't know how to tie my shoes, and it makes me flush with anger and embarrassment. "Well, no-" I try to sound as dignified as possible, but Baz cuts me off.

"Aren't you from Texas? Isn't Texas all redneck cowboys?"

I sigh, unsure if his ignorance is intentional or not. "No, Baz. That’s a stereotype. Plus, I'm from _Austin_ ," I say meaningfully, but he doesn't seem to pick up on it.

"And?" He says.

"And you're uneducated on the diversity that exists in America," I respond, and he looks offended.

"I'm not uneducated on anything," he says with an air of superiority that would usually make my blood boil. But since it's also tinged with a bit of indignation, it makes me chuckle to myself.

"Sure, Baz," I say, mimicking Agatha's signature disbelieving tone.

Baz looks like he's about to retort, but I'm saved by Mordelia coming back with Mr. Darcy.

“Here you go!” Mordelia says cheerily. “Baz, why don’t you-”

“Your guest, your responsibility,” he says, cutting off whatever her request was going to be and pulling his horse away from her.

She sighs dramatically. “Okay, Simon, why don’t come with me and I’ll show you how to mount Mr. Darcy.”

Mordelia turns out to be a very good instructor. She’s very patient for a child, and scarily intuitive. She’s obviously training to compete with her horse, because while I’m struggling to follow simple instructions, like how to signal left and right to Mr. Darcy, Mordelia is practicing jumping over hurdles with Bonnie. Baz just lazily watches us, riding Tasha somewhat but getting off a lot to just watch us while he pets her. Mordelia tries to get him to engage more, but Baz seems bitter I was invited. Mordelia’s complaints- ‘Baz, you promised to practice _with_ me, not _near_ me!’- are met with sharp retorts- ‘and you promised your Mum you weren’t the one who spilled tea on Henry V’s rug, so I guess we’re both liars!’.

After an hour, we return to the stables. Though I had fun riding with Mordelia, Baz’s presence did put me on edge a bit. I’m ready to retreat back to the guest room, but Mordelia has other plans.

“Wait, you have to brush Mr. Darcy and give him a treat!” She insists.

“Mordelia, surely the stable hands can-” Baz starts, but Mordelia glares at him.

“No, they can’t. Bonding with your horse is part of the experience.” She says passionately.

“Okay, okay,” I agree before they start fighting, “show me what to do, Mordelia.” Honestly, it sounds fun, anyways. It’s not like you can screw up feeding a horse.

Mordelia grabs a couple of bags sliced apples out of a mini fridge, and hands me one. “They like to be hand fed. It helps you bond.” She says, and I smile at her appreciatively. Baz is shooting glances at me from his stable across the way while he feeds his own horse, but I ignore him, trying to enjoy myself.

Mr. Darcy eats the apple enthusiastically, tail gently swinging behind me and I smile widely at the animal. When Mr. Darcy is done eating, he nuzzles me gently, and I giggle despite myself.

“He likes you,” Mordelia says gently, sounding proud.

"He’s calming," I say, happily. I wasn’t sure if I should come down to the stables, but I’m glad I did. I’ve always loved animals. Ebb grew up on a farm, and her brother still runs one. She took me to visit him, once, and we spent hours with the goats.

"Equine therapy," Baz responds, distractedly, staring at his horse as he brushes her.

"What?" I say, not quite catching his words. He pauses for a moment, his hands stilling, before he resumes brushing his horse.

“Equine therapy,” he replies in an indecipherable voice, “it’s a type of therapy where patients bond with therapy horses. Since they’re empathetic animals.”

I look at Mr. Darcy’s long face and smile. “Is Mr. Darcy a therapy horse?” I ask.

“No,” Baz says, defensively, and I look at him curiously. His eyes are locked on Tasha, and his shoulders are tense. I’m not sure what upset him so suddenly, and I’m trying to think of how to continue the conversation peacefully, when he suddenly walks out of his stables.

“Was it something I said?” I try to joke to Mordelia, but it comes out bitter.

Mordelia looks at me. She doesn’t have Baz’s grey eyes; rather, they’re a deep brown, and now they’re glued on me with startling intensity. “No, I’m sure it wasn’t.” She says, but it sounds like she’s just trying to appease me, “Let’s get breakfast, I’m sure you’re hungry.”

As soon as she finishes her sentence, my stomach grumbles, causing the princess to giggle. She leads me to a dining room so grand I’m surprised it exists in the 21st century, where a woman sits at the long mahogany table. “Mordelia!” She says, “How was your ride?”

“Great, Mum,” Mordelia says happily, “this is Simon Snow.”

The woman looks at me like she’s just noticed me, and I realize this is Queen Daphne. She’s got her long dark hair in a bun and she’s without makeup. She has kind eyes- Mordelia’s warm brown, I realize- and is decidedly ‘motherly’, especially considering her bulging stomach suggests she’s in her third trimester.

“Hello, Simon!” Daphne says pleasantly. She shows no signs of tension, but I’m suddenly very embarrassed, remembering I caused a global scandal last time I was in her vicinity.

I can’t remember the proper etiquette for Americans greeting British royals, considering I usually substitute a ‘hello’ for a ‘fuck you’ when I see the royal I am in most frequent contact with. I probably should have considered this before this moment, considering I’ve already met two princesses. Not knowing what to do, I awkwardly bow and pray that’s the right response. Mordelia giggles at me, which makes me think the bow was a mistake, but Daphne keeps smiling politely.

“How are you enjoying your stay?” Daphne asks.

“Oh, uh-” I stutter. I can’t very well say ‘ _your stepson is a nightmare_ ’, can I? “It’s lovely here. Mordelia was just teaching me how to horseback ride.”

“Good girl,” Daphne says, opening her arms to let Mordelia hug her. “Now, will you make sure Simon gets a plate of breakfast as well?”

If I wasn’t fond of Daphne from her displays of politeness before, I certainly am when I taste how amazing breakfast is. My plate is stacked high with pancakes, sausage, bacon, eggs, and something Mordelia insists I try- beans on toast. I’m skeptical at first, until I try it, and find myself reminding myself to ask the staff at the White House if they can make this, too. I’ve nearly cleared my plate when King Malcolm enters.

Where Daphne is all soft edges, Malcolm is all harsh lines. He’s got a strong jawline, porcelain skin, and a detached look in his eyes I realize his son has picked up from him. I’ve never been in such close proximity to the King, and I’m unsure what to do.

“Who's this?” Malcolm asks, looking at me with a blank expression. I find it hard to believe he doesn’t know who I am.

“H-hi I’m Simon. Simon Snow.” I stutter, cursing myself internally for making my name sound more like more of a question than a statement. “Your highness,” I add a little too late.

His blank stare makes me uncomfortable. “Pleasure,” he says, though his tone makes me feel like the opposite is true.

“Um, I’m sorry for the, er, wedding.” I say, and immediately regret bringing it up when Malcolm’s face darkens.

“Yes, well,” He says, in his posh, superior accent, “nowhere to go now but forward.”

“Yeah, uh, I better get ready. Baz- Prince Baz- Uh- Prince Basilton- will be expecting me.” I stammer, standing from the dining room table.

“Bye Simon. I’m sure I’ll see you later.” Mordelia says with a wave and a grin. I smile back at her, and get back to the royal guest suite, wondering if this family can get any stranger.

* * *

Baz has got his long hair slicked back and is dressed smartly in all black when he finally gets in the SUV.

“You were supposed to be here 10 minutes ago,” I complain, as he straps himself into the backseat next to me.

“No. I’m five minutes early.” He says cooly.

“ _No,_ my itinerary said 11:00.” I got here at 11:05, but no need to tell him that.

“ _Your_ itinerary. I reminded the staff of your tendency to be late, so they changed it so that you’d be on time to everything.” He says with an amused smirk.

I grit my teeth in annoyance that he had the foresight to plan for that. Though…

“How did you know I’m always late?” I ask.

He pauses, his expression going blank. “I assumed.”

I’m about to retort something snarky when the passenger door opens, and Ms. Possibelf joins us.

“Basilton,” she says gently. “You forgot this,” she whispers as she hands him two pills, one white and one pink. He throws them back quickly without water.

I try to catch his eyes, curious about the meds, but he sticks headphones in and keeps his eyes closed the rest of the ride. I can’t shake the feeling that it’s to avoid talking to me, and I lie to myself and pretend that doesn’t bother me.

* * *

I like doing charity events best, because they’re the hardest to screw up. I’m never asked anything too hard or political; I just have to smile and be nice. Today, we’re in the kids cancer ward, which I’m surprised about, since Baz doesn’t seem like the type who would like hospitals very much. I’ve seen him use Purell over a dozen times in the last 24 hours alone, so he must be some kind of clean freak. 

But he seems fine enough now that we’ve gotten here, and the kids go wild when they see him. A lot of them don’t know who I am, but I find I prefer it that way, anyways. You can’t fail to live up to expectations that don’t exist.

I wander off from the cameras to talk to the kids without documentation. I know that’s not the point of today’s visit, but I do better that way. I really do like kids, so I get distracted quickly once the cameras are gone. I spend more time than I realize talking to a twelve year old girl about ‘Love Island’, a British reality show Agatha and I watch obsessively every summer.

When I wander back to where I expect Baz to be, I realize we’ve ditched the cameras, but Baz is still talking to a patient, a seven year old girl with a deep blush and a Harry Potter costume.

“When I grow up, I want to go to Hogwarts,” she tells Baz. I prepare to see his robotic polite smile, but instead he throws his head back in jovial laughter.

“Don’t we all?” He says with an easiness I’ve never seen on him. He leans in conspiratorially, “don’t tell anyone, but I cried when I didn’t get my letter on my eleventh birthday.” The little girl’s hand flies to her mouth to suppress a giggle, and it makes Baz smirk. Except, there’s nothing mocking or cruel about it- he’s smirking like they’re in on a private joke. “I’m sure you’ll get yours though, Eleanor. I can sense the magic on you.”

Her face lights up at the prince’s words. “Who's your favorite character, Prince Baz?”

Baz pretends to think hard on the question, stroking his chin dramatically, before finally answers, “Sirius Black.”

“Why?” She asks curiously, but a nurse comes back before Baz can answer.

“Ellie, it’s time for your medicine,” the nurse says, before noticing Baz. “Oh, hello your royal highness.” She says, her voice becoming much more formal.

“Hello,” Baz says, and I can see his perfect mask slipping back on.

“Say goodbye to the prince and his friend.” The nurse says to Ellie. The little girl is protesting as Baz notices me standing there for the first time. I’m a little embarrassed as his eyes narrow for a moment, until his gaze is broken as he turns back to Ellie as she’s saying “I don’t want to take any more meds!”.

“Now, now, listen to your doctors, so you can owl me from Hogwarts later,” Baz says with a wink, and the girl swells with pride.

We walk into the hallway together and fall into an uncomfortable silence. I decide to break it with “so, Harry Potter?”. I mean for it to come out polite, but it comes out suspicious.

“Yes,” He says tensely, “believe it or not, the royals have access to Harry Potter, the international phenomenon.”

“I just assumed you’d think the writing was… beneath you.”

He sends me an incredulous look, and I’m surprised by the passion in his eyes. “No one is above Harry Potter.”

“Good to know,” I respond, biting back laughter at his unexpected intensity about a children’s series. For some reason, it makes him seem more human. Without meaning to, my mind supplies an image of Baz in Hogwarts robes with the kind of wooden wand you get at Universal Studios. My stomach twists in a way that’s not unfamiliar, though I can’t name the emotion that drives it.

Before Baz can respond, there’s a loud bang in the next room so loud I jump closer to Baz. It might be my American reflexes kicking in, but I’m pretty sure that noise was gunfire. I’m not reassured in the slightest when Ms. Possibelf is in the room in less than five seconds, demanding we ‘stay down, stay down’, as she shoves us into a supply closet. I lose my balance before the door even closes, falling on top of the prince as we crash on the floor together.

“Oh, fuck,” he curses, and I can’t say I disagree with his sentiments on this one.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Simon is a clueless pining mess, and I, for one, am here for it
> 
> (Tune in next time for Baz: a self aware pining mess !!)


	4. Learning All Your Hidden Depths

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Baz and Simon are stuck in a closet and get to talking.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Tw: references to internalized homophobia and self harm

**Baz**

In this moment, with Simon Snow on top of me, I’m genuinely considering walking out of this closet and risking gunfire, because if he doesn’t move soon, I’m going to get a boner.

_“Get off,”_ I demand in a low voice.

“Shhh!” He responds, much louder than my whisper.

“ _Now,_ Snow.” I say, spitting his bronze curls out of my mouth.

“Be quiet!” He says, trying to push himself up off me, but this supply closet is crowded and he hits his head on a metal shelf.

“You’re the loud one! Now get up!” I insist, uncomfortable with all the shifting he’s doing on top of me.

Simon sighs loudly, and rolls so we’re side by side. Our legs are still intertwined and our crotches are still dangerously close together. “Ms. Possibelf said to stay down,” he says.

“I think that was more the metaphorical stay down.” I protest.

“The fuck is a ‘ _metaphorical stay down’?_ ” Snow says, mouth gaping like the mouth breather he is.

“Shut up,” I respond, not actually knowing what I meant by that.

“Ugh,” he complains, “I can’t believe you got us into this mess.”

“ _Excuse me_ ,” I reply, indignant. “I did no such thing.”

“No one has ever tried to assassinate me before, but the minute I start hanging around you, I get shot at.” He grumbles. “Typical.”

“ _You_ are the one with the gun-obsessed country! Guns aren’t even legal here!” I whisper yell.

“Well, they got in somehow, don’t you think?”

I sit up to get some distance from him, planning on standing up so we’re not nose to nose. “Probably from your redneck country, you-”

I’m cut off by Snow putting his hand over my mouth and rolling on top of me again. “ _Quiet,”_ he hisses, using his other hand to point at the door. I hear loud footsteps on the other side. When I hear them subside, I try to push Snow off of me, but he’s too heavy.

“Stay!” He demands, pushing his hip down to keep me in place. I don’t think he meant for that to be sexual, but my body doesn’t care about his intentions. My eyes widen as I continue to try to get him off me, surely looking like the human embodiment of Gay Panic.

“Must you always be so hard?” He asks, sounding annoyed. I freeze, thinking he can feel the growing bulge in my pants, before I realize he’s just asking me why I’m so difficult.

“I won’t try to get up again, just please _get off_ ,” I’m mortified to realize I sound like I’m begging a little, and Snow looks surprised as well. He rolls off me, muttering, “uh, sorry.”

An awkward silence falls upon us, causing the passing seconds to feel like hours. He’s the one to break it with, “so… Sirius Black?”, his tone dripping in curiosity.

“Yes, Sirius Black,” I say in a tone that’s supposed to shut down further questions. Snow, being Snow, either doesn’t pick up on it or doesn’t care.

“Why?” He asks, mirroring little Eleanor’s question.

Because he’s the most tragic character in the series. Because I know what it’s like to feel trapped, and misunderstood, and hopeless. Because I feel like I’ve been trapped in my own version of Azkaban for ten years. Because Gary Oldman is fit. Because I’m pretty sure Sirius Black is gay. Because I relate to him.

“Because he’s hilarious,” I answer, keeping my tone neutral.

Snow doesn’t look like he believes me. “Really?” He asks skeptically.

“Really,” I respond, trying, though probably failing, to sound bored.

“You are such a one-dimensional bastard,” he mutters, and I feel my face flush to a deep red.

“ _Excuse you_ ,” I spit out, furious. “You don’t know the first thing about me.”

“I know enough,” he mutters.

“What the fuck did I ever do to make you hate me so fucking much?” My voice is soaked in bitterness, and Snow looks surprised by my emotional hostility.

“You really don’t know?” He asks, impatiently.

“Obviously, I really don’t know.” I spit back, “You act like I got you on a no-fly list or murdered your hamster.” Not my best comeback, but I’m too agitated to think straight with Snow so close to me.

He honest to God growls, and I send a prayer up that he’s no longer on top of me so he can’t feel what that noise just did to me.

“No, you motherfucking prick,” he snaps. “Don’t you remember the Winter Olympics? Where we first met?”

Of course I remember the Winter Olympics. He was wearing a light grey striped suit, a blue tie that matched his eyes, and his wild curls stood straight up on his head. The suit was tailored tight on his arse and I could barely take my eyes off him, and not for lack of trying. The day he came up to introduce himself and I noticed that he had a mole where his ear met his neck and my brain went blank. Immediately after being introduced, I made Ms. Possibelf take me back to my hotel room early, passing my butterflies off as the stomach flu.

The memory puts me on the defensive, so I respond, “I can’t be expected to remember every single Olympics I’ve attended, seeing as I’ve been to every one since I was a toddler.”

_Smooth, Basilton,_ I think, cursing myself.

“Well, it was memorable for me. Because it was _my_ first one, and I was excited for it, and I was excited to meet you, because I thought you’d be as nice as you look in photographs. But when I came up to introduce myself, you looked at me like I was the human personification of the Black Plague, turned to your handler, and demanded she get rid of me immediately.”

At first, I’m distracted by his admission that he wanted to meet me and that he thought I looked nice. It warms my chest, until he gets to the part where he heard what I said to Ms. Possibelf.

“I, uh, I-” I start, mortified by my stuttering. I clear my throat, and say in an even voice, “I didn’t realize you heard me say that.”

He growls, and instead of making me horny, this time it makes me feel even more mortified. “I think you’re missing my point, which is that it’s a shitty thing to say either way.”

_Oh, Simon_ , I think, _if you only knew why I said that. You were just too bright. You were the sun, and you were blinding me. I was afraid you’d start a fire in me I could never put out. And time is only proving that I was right to be afraid._

“Right, right… Uh… so that’s it? After that you wrote me off as a prick?” I sound desperate even to my own ears, and it makes me cringe internally.

“Well,” He says, considering. “That was the start of it.”

I wait for him to elaborate, but he doesn’t. “It sounds like there’s a ‘middle’, there,” I say, pressing him to continue.

“Yeah, well,” He says with a loud huff, “when I realized that your nice thing was just an act, I got annoyed. And pissed. Everything’s just so easy for you. You’re Prince fucking Charming. I mean, except when it comes to me. But everything isn’t easy for me. I’m the adopted son of the first female president, and I’m shit with words, and I’m the type to cause a scene at a royal wedding and, _ugh_ ,” He says, tugging at his hair. “Why do _you_ hate _me?_ ”

I far from hate this marvelous idiot. “I don’t,” I admit. “I was just… well… sometimes I get… anxious at public events and act out,” I say. The admission burns my throat a little, but I have to give him some kind of explanation for my behavior. “It’s no excuse, though. I shouldn’t have been so rude to you at the Olympics. Or any of the other times. I’m sorry.”

Simon looks very surprised by my apology. “Oh, well, uh…” He says, looking unsure. “I mean, it’s alright I guess. Maybe I overreacted a little.”

The tension in my chest unwinds a little, making it easier to breathe.

“So…” He asks. His tone only has a slight edge to it; otherwise, it’s quite conversational. “What’s your favorite Harry Potter book?”

“Easy. Harry Potter and the Order or the Phoenix,” I answer quickly, glad for the subject change.

He laughs. “What’s so funny about that?”

“Nothing, nothing,” He says, though it’s undercut by the fact that he snorts a little. I’ve never heard him make that sound; it’s surprisingly endearing. “It’s just… you’re wrong.”

“ _What?_ ” I ask, taken aback. “How can I be wrong about my own favorite book?”

“Harry Potter 5 is so _angsty._ The seventh book is clearly the best. Or the first.” He insists.

“Ugh, what a boring answer.” I respond.

“No, it’s the right answer,” he says stubbornly. “The first is great because it introduces you to the whole magical world, and the seventh is great because it wraps everything up. And all is well.”

“All is most certainly not well. Every surviving character certainly must have clinical PTSD. Three therapists and a psychiatrist amount of PTSD.”

Snow huffs. “But Harry defeats the bad guy! It’s a good ending!”

“At what cost, Snow?”

“Whatever, I like it. The epilogue is happy. It ends with hope and friendship and love…” He trails off, blushing.

“What a surprise, you’re a romantic.” I say sarcastically. It’s not even remotely a surprise. He looks like someone who just fell out of a Fifty-Percent-On-Rotten-Tomatoes Rom Com. The main guy who’s patient and kind and sexy and ends up with the Drop-Dead-Gorgeous-But-Doesn’t-Know-It kind of girl.

“What’s wrong with that?” He asks defensively.

“It’s unrealistic.” I say, which is a lie. It’s not romance that I find unrealistic, but romance for me. He scoffs.

“How is romance ‘unrealistic’?” Snow asks, doing dramatic air quotes around ‘unrealistic’.

“Happy endings are unrealistic.” I respond, and I hear Snow’s head whip to the side to look at me. I pointedly ignore his gaze.

“Do you really think that?” Snow asks with an edge to his voice.

I’m saved from answering by the door ripping open. “False alarm. Some kids tried to bring fireworks in for their sick brother, and didn’t realize the prince was here.” Possibelf says, with a tone that very subtlety adds an unspoken ‘fucking numpties’ to the end of that sentence.

“Wow, sounds like something an American would do.” I say flatly.

Possibelf’s lips upturn slightly, and I’m about to grin until Snow elbows me in the side.

“This looks cozy,” Possibelf says, dryly sarcastic.

Snow blushes, and mumbles, “well, you said to stay down.”

“I meant that as more of a metaphorical ‘stay down’,” she responds, and I bark out a laugh.

Snow turns bright red from collarbone to forehead at that, and says, “I hate this fucking country.”

But I’m not offended, because he says it with an indulgent grin.

* * *

“And then what happened?” Fiona asks, after I’m done recounting my day.

“Nothing, Fi.” I say, annoyed by her constant badgering. “Then, we came back home.”

“Cute. You’re already referring to the palace as your home together. Is it going to be your royal wedding next summer?”

“You know what I meant,” I growl. “And don’t say that.”

“Why not?” She asks.

“You know why the fuck not,” I say, suddenly very angry.

She knows better than anyone how limiting the crown is. That’s why she didn’t ascend to Queen when my mother died. She didn’t want to stop playing her guitar in shitty dive bars or sleeping with inappropriate men or drink even an ounce less of whiskey. So, she let my father rule instead. But he’s not directly descended from the Pitch bloodline, so his position is temporary- he’ll only rule until I’m 25, and then I’ll become the King of England.

I don’t have a choice. I’m my mother’s only child, the last living Pitch, other than Fiona. The Heir to the Throne can’t be in love with a boy.

Fiona recognizes the darkness that falls over my features, knows where my too fast brain is going: to all the scariest places in my mind. “Little puff,” she says gently, and, despite myself I get choked up a little. She saves my mother’s nickname for me for especially emotionally-charged occasions: the day of my mother’s funeral, the day she found my scars, the day my father found my homoerotic literature collection and threw it all away. “You deserve to be happy.”

“My right is a throne, not nirvana.” I try to sound cutting, but I sound petulant.

“I’m not talking rights. I’m talking wants, and desires, and needs.” She says, gently. “Why do you think I refused the crown?”

“I don’t have that luxury.” I complain.

“Maybe not,” she admits. “But you can make the crown mean what you want it to.”

She looks at me very meaningfully, and I look away in discomfort. Fiona is so rarely serious, but it always cuts me to my core when she is.

“Just so you know,” she says, her expression solemn, “I’m not opposed to running off and joining the circus. I’m very flexible, I could be an acrobat if I put my mind to it.”

There she is.

“What would I be?” I ask.

She grins wickedly. “Step right up, ladies and gentleman!” She says in an over dramatic announcers voice, jumping to her feet with her arms outstretched to gesture at me. “Come see the World’s Biggest Prick, Prince Tyrannus Basilton Grimm-Pitch!”

I snort in laughter, and it sends Fiona into hysterics. “You’re a bitch,” I say with no malice.

“That’s you, boyo.”

Our laughter is interrupted by a soft knock on the door.

“Who's that, Fi? I thought Dev was still visiting Phillipa’s family.” I say, curious.

“Don’t get mad, but-”

“That’s not a promising start to an answer.”

She doesn’t reply, just walks over to the front door. She opens it to reveal- _why am I surprised_ \- Simon Snow standing there, awkwardly shuffling from side to side. He’s biting his bottom lip and running his hand through his damp curls, looking uncomfortable.

“Hi, Baz.” He says shyly. He’s never said my name without hostility or false politeness before, and it throws me.

“Uh…” I respond, feeling dumb.

“I got your note. Am I early?” He asks nervously.

“Note?” I ask, and I notice he’s got a stock card with the royal crest on it. I only know one person bold enough to forge my handwriting. I turn to Fiona immediately, cursing her out in my head. She looks unperturbed by my annoyance.

“Oh, did I sign that thing with Baz’s name? Wow, I need to stop doing that.”

That’s it. I’m banishing her from England the very day of my coronation.

“Oh,” Snow says, looking embarrassed. “Oh, I’m sorry, I’ll just, uh, go-”

“Nonsense!” Fiona says jovially, and opens the door wide. “Come in!”

Snow sends a searching look my way. I debate with myself whether this is even a remotely good idea. One one hand, the more time I spend with him, the more I’m going to fall in love with him. On the other hand, well. I’m already in pretty deep. What will a couple more hours really do?

“We’re supposed to be best mates, Snow.” I say, trying to sound practical and not longing. “That’ll be more convincing if we seem like two people who can stand being in the same room together.”

“Er, well, uh, yeah, I guess-” Snow stutters, still standing firmly at the threshold. He seems unsure as to whether my comment was an invitation, so I decide to elaborate.

“Come in, Snow.” I say in a neutral tone. “We have snacks.”

That gets him in the door, alright. His hand is in the bowl of crisps before he’s even sat down.

“So, uh.” He says, “what are we watching?”

“Oh, it was Basil’s turn to pick, so we’re watching Bridget Jones’s Diary.” Fiona, who apparently is hell-bent on embarrassing me and giving away all my dirty secrets, says with a self satisfied smile.

Snow looks like he’s been hit over the head. “Really? _You_ picked that?”

“It’s a good movie. Bridget Jones is a British icon,” I say, a tad too defensively.

“ _You_ like rom coms?” He says, still in an overly disbelieving tone.

“ _Likes_ them? He loves them!” Fiona cackles, and I wonder if any of the staff would be willing to take out a hit on her. “Every time it’s his turn to pick we watch something like this.”

Snow is staring at me like he’s never seen me before. It’s unnerving and mortifying. “What happened to Mr. ‘Romance is Fake’?”

Fiona snorts. “Did he really say that? He’s so full of shit. He’s always trying to seem so brooding and cool, but he’s a sap. God, this coming from the guy whose favorite television program is-”

“Okay, okay, that’s quite enough!” I interrupt her, not wanting Fiona to reveal any more embarrassing tidbits about me. “Do you want to watch the movie or would you like me to kick you out of my flat?”

Fiona mumbles something that sounds suspiciously like ‘drama queen’, but I ignore it in favor of starting the movie. Though, it’s hard to concentrate, even with stars as hot as Colin Firth and Hugh Grant as leading men, when Simon Snow is sitting not three feet from me. At one point, we both reach for the crisps at the same time, and our hands touch, and I feel as if I’ve been electrocuted. I wonder briefly whether he felt it to- the electric charge between us that he always reads as hostility and I always read as unresolved sexual tension, at least on my end- before concluding that I am acting like a besotted schoolgirl. I try to go back to paying attention to the movie, which would also be easier if Fiona wasn’t making not at all subtle comments comparing me to Mark Darcy.

Finally, towards the end of the movie, I snap, and whisper to her, “I’m much more fit than Colin Firth.”

“Dream on, boyo,” she replies at a normal volume, which causes Snow to turn to us curiously. Mercifully, Fiona shuts her mouth for once.

When the movie ends- after what feels like six long hours but also feels far too soon- Snow gets up. “Uh, I better head back to my room. Early flight back, and all,” he says, awkwardly.

“Yeah,” I reply dumbly.

For 45 seconds, we just stare at one another, neither of us moving or speaking. Fiona breaks the silence by clearing her throat.

“Okay, boy wonders. You better exchange numbers, now.” Fiona says, clapping her hands together.

I say “pardon?” as Snow says “what?”.

“C’mon. If you’re seen together for one weekend and then never again, everyone will know this,” she gestures dramatically between the two of us, “was staged. You gotta keep up appearances unless we want a repeat of the American War of Independence.”

“Feels like that would be a disproportionate response.” I say.

“Hey, I’m not the one who caused a scene at a royal wedding,” she pauses, looking thoughtful “this time, anyways.”

I sigh, the closest thing she’ll get to a concession that she’s right, and hold my hand out for Snow to give me his phone. When he does, I punch my number in and text myself so I’ll have his.

“There.” I say.

“Lovely,” Fiona says. “I also took it upon myself to post a selfie of you guys watching the movie. You’re welcome.”

Snow and I both pull up Instagram, to find that **Princess_Fiona** has posted a new photo: a candid of Snow and I. He’s stuffing his face with crisps and I have a soft smile on as I watch the movie. The caption is “chill night in with my favourite best mates **@SimonSnow @BasiltonGrimmPitch** ”.

“Feels like overkill,” I say, in reference to her assertion that the two of us are best mates.

“Feels like two million likes in 25 minutes,” Fiona retorts.

I sigh, and accept this is my life now.

* * *

It's four days later when I get the first text.

**American Idiot (5:12 p.m):** this dude looks like you

 **American Idiot (5:12 p.m.):** [photo of Hotel Transylvania poster with Snow’s hand pointing at Count Dracula]

 **Me (7:43 p.m):** What the everloving fuck, Snow.

 **American Idiot (8:36 p.m.):** :-) :-) :-)

I stare longer than I’d like to admit to those stupid smiley faces, unsure where to even begin to respond.

* * *

He doesn’t stop with one text.

**American Idiot (11:08 p.m.):** go like my Instagram photo

 **Me (11:23 p.m.):** I’m not sure what it’s like in off-brand England, but you should know that it’s considered wildly uncool to ask for Instagram likes here.

 **American Idiot (11:32 p.m.):** fuck off

 **American Idiot (11:33 p.m.):** it’s a picture of us from last weekend

 **American Idiot (11:33 p.m.):** Penny said it would be good press to post it

 **Me (11:41 p.m.):** But if I like it, won’t that imply that I approve of the photo?

 **American Idiot (11:42 p.m.):** Uh ya that’s kinda the point here dude

 **American Idiot (11:43 p.m.):** what’s wrong do u not like that photo of urself

 **Me (11:47 p.m.):** Oh, no. I look great.

 **Me (11:48 p.m.):** It’s your shirt I have a problem with.

 **American Idiot (11:53 p.m.):** fuck off

I end up liking the picture.

* * *

**American Idiot (1:37 a.m.):** is Bridget Jones's Baby any good

 **Me (1:59 a.m.):** Snow, are you aware of a global phenomenon called time zones? Which in turn cause time differences?

 **American Idiot** **(2:00 a.m.)** : yeah asshole but you're clearly awake so

 **American Idiot (2:01 a.m.):** answer the question Penny and me are trying to pick a movie

 **Me (2:06 a.m.):** Penny and I

 **American Idiot (2:09 a.m.):** wat

 **Me (2:16 a.m.):** The proper grammar is ‘Penny and I’.

 **American Idiot (2:18 a.m):** it’s a fuckin yes or no question Pitch

 **American Idiot (2:19 a.m):** aren’t u the rom com expert

 **American Idiot (2:19 a.m.):** don’t u secretly love tired cliches and happy endings

 **American Idiot (2:19 a.m.):** don’t lie I can always DM Fiona for more dirt

 **Me (2:24 a.m.):** Please remember that you signed an all-encompassing NDA and that I have enough resources to have you murdered and make it look like an accident.

 **American Idiot (2:25 a.m.):** YES

 **American Idiot (2:25 a.m.):** OR

 **American Idiot (2:26 a.m.):** NO

 **American Idiot (2:26 a.m.):**!!!!!!!!

 **Me (2:27 a.m.):** Jesus fuck, Snow. Yes, it’s decent.

 **American Idiot (2:29 a.m.):** thx mate

 **Me (2:31 a.m.):** Call me mate again, and I’ll stage your death in such a way that it's so embarrassing for your family that your mother resigns from office.

 **American Idiot (2:34 a.m.):** u wouldnt

 **Me (2:37 a.m):** Try me.

* * *

**American Idiot (6:03 a.m.):** [link to YouTube video]

 **Me (6:45 a.m.):** Why the fuck did you just send me a video of a dog imitating a siren?

 **American Idiot (6:57 a.m.):** did it make you laugh

 **American Idiot (7:12 a.m.):** did it

 **American Idiot (7:16 a.m.):** Baz you have your read on I know you are seeing this

 **Me (7:18 a.m.):** Fine.

 **American Idiot (7:20 a.m.):** yes?

 **Me (7:25 a.m):** Yes.

 **American Idiot (7:27 a.m.):** :-)

* * *

**American Idiot (10:12 a.m.):** Baz

 **American Idiot (10:13 a.m.):** Baz

 **American Idiot (10:15 a.m.):** BASILTONM

 **Me (10:16 a.m.):** Are you okay, Snow?

 **American Idiot (10:18 a.m.):** so you’ve seen those “baby on board” stickers on cars right?

 **American Idiot (10:18 a.m.):** bright orange triangles? objectively obnoxious?

 **Me (10:19 a.m.):** I have no idea where this is going.

 **American Idiot (10:19 a.m.):** and you’ve thought to yourself, yo chill bro

 **American Idiot (10:19 a.m.):** I’m not going to hit ur car u don’t have to tell me there’s a baby on board to convince me to be safe around u

 **Me (10:20 a.m.):** I have never thought to myself “yo chill bro”.

 **American Idiot (10:20 a.m.):** and in ur head ur shit talking the person with the sticker cuz like, ur not special it’s not that hard to make a baby

 **American Idiot (10:21 a.m.):** BUT PEN TOLD ME THOSE THINGS ARE FOR FIRST RESPONDERS BAZ

 **American Idiot (10:21 a.m.):** SO HTEY KNOW TO SAVE THE BABY FRIST

 **Me (10:22 a.m): I** t is 3:00 a.m. in D.C., Snow.

 **American Idiot (10:22 a.m.):** THOSE PEOPEL WITH THE SIGNS ARENT THE ASSHOLES

 **American Idiot (10:22 a.m.):** IM THE ASSHOLE

 **Me (10:23):** Oh my god. It’s becoming self-aware.

 **American Idiot (10:24 a.m.):** BAZ WHY DIDNT HOU TELL ME I WAS AN ASSHOLE

 **Me (10:25 a.m.):** I have. On multiple occasions.

**American Idiot (10:26 a.m.): 😭😭😭**

**Me (10:27 a.m.):** Please go to sleep, you absolute nightmare.

 **American Idiot (10:27 a.m.):** how am I supposed to sleep knowing all that I know

 **Me (10:28 a.m.):** Life always finds a way, Snow

 **Me (10:29 a.m.):** Sleep. You start class tomorrow.

 **American Idiot (10:30 a.m.):** ugh fine

 **American Idiot (10:31 a.m.):** thanks for remembering

 **Me (10:33 a.m.):** You’ve been texting me constantly about it all week. How exactly was I supposed to forget?

 **American Idiot (10:34 a.m.):** thanks for caring Baz goodnight!!!

 **Me (10:35 a.m.):** Nobody said I cared.

 **American Idiot (10:36 a.m.):** thx mate!!!!!!1!

* * *

I think I might have been wrong about not being able to fall any deeper in love with him.

I'm royally fucked.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Me: pace yourself with this fic, you really have a lot to do this week  
> Me to me: skip sleep to write this fic  
> (Insert evil Kermit meme)
> 
> Hope you enjoyed!! I’ve been so excited to get to their text messaging stage


	5. Ugliness Couched In Dog Whistles and Toothy White Smiles

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Mitali Bunce’s re-election campaign is starting, and Simon looks to Baz to calm his nerves.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> can’t stop won’t stop writing I’m on a mother fucking roll

**Simon**

“Simon… Simon… _Simon!”_ Agatha yells.

“What?” I say, startled into dropping my phone into my lap.

Agatha crosses her arms. “Were you paying attention?” She asks.

“Yes,” I say, instinctively and defensively.

“Really,” she says, her tone bored. “What did I just say?”

I pause. “You said ‘were you paying attention’,” I respond. Penny snorts and Agatha rolls her eyes.

I’m supposed to be helping them pick outfits for Mitali’s first re-election campaign speech. But we’ve been at this boutique for an hour now, and they’ve tried on two dozen dresses between them by now, and frankly, I’m bored.

“So, what’s your deal? Are you selling White House artifacts on eBay?” Agatha asks as she checks herself out in the mirror. She’s got a mid-calf length baby blue strapless dress on, and I was about to tell her to just buy that one, until her question throws me off.

I blink at her, confused. “Excuse me?”

“These days, you’re always looking at your phone, and you get all secretive and blushy when we ask you what you’re up to. You keep biting your fingernails, which you do when you're feeling guilty or nervous about something." Agatha says with narrowed eyes.

“And your first guess was that I’m running an online pawn shop by stealing priceless things from our home, which is also a national landmark? I'm pretty sure that's illegal." I deflect.

"You're only _pretty_ sure?" Penny asks disbelievingly, as she snaps a photo of the white and gold pantsuit she has on. She’s probably sending Micah photos of her choices since I’ve been checked out.

"Simon, I'm not saying I haven't thought about selling Nancy Reagan's tea set myself, but Mitali is going to freak out if she catches you." Agatha says solemnly.

"I'm not stealing from America, God! I'm just texting Baz!" I blurt out without thinking. The dressing room goes silent.

"Yeah. Well, duh." Agatha says, flipping her long blonde hair over her shoulder.

“What?” I ask, confused.

“You’ve been glued to your phone since you went to Buckingham. Obviously, you’re texting Baz.”

“But, but…” I splutter, “Then, why did you accuse me of being a national thief!”

“You weren’t coughing it up. It’s been a damn month, and every time we ask who you’re texting, you turn red like we’ve caught you watching porn or looking up Dax Shepard interviews again.”

“I… I… he‘s funny!” I try to defend, and Penny scoffs.

“Please, no one’s Spend-Six-Hours-In-A-YouTube-Rabbit-Hole funny.”

“I’m really not seeing your point.” I lie.

Penny marches over to me and grabs my phone out of my hands. “Hey!” I protest, and reach for my phone, but she holds it out of my grasp.

“Yep, texting Prince Baz. Rude. Ignoring your friends for your so-called nemesis.”

“I think calling him my nemesis is a little dramatic.”

“Simon,” Agatha says meaningfully, “you’ve literally called him your nemesis. The only person who has used that term to describe Basilton Pitch is you.”

Penny bursts out laughing, and I send her a nasty look as I realize she’s reading my text messages.

“It’s illegal to hack a First Son’s text messages.” I say seriously.

“One, how is it hacking if I know your password is my birthday? Two, report me to the FBI.”

I frown as she turns my phone to show Agatha the messages as well. I look over her shoulder to read them again, trying to imagine seeing the conversation from their perspective.

**Royal Bitch (1:34 p.m.):** Love Island is a trash television show.

 **Me (1:36 p.m.):** ur a trash show

 **Me (1:37 p.m.):** don’t diss ur own nation like that

 **Me (1:37 p.m.):** I’ll expose your uncultured ass. I’ll tweet this conversation

 **Royal Bitch (1:41 p.m.):** Do you understand what a non-disclosure agreement is?

 **Royal Bitch (1:42 p.m.):** And please do not refer to Love Island as British culture. It is a heteronormative, crude, scripted mess.

 **Me (1:43 p.m.):** I’ll have Fiona tweet it then. She outranks you right

 **Me (1:44 p.m.):** and Love Island is not scripted!!!!

 **Me (1:44 p.m.):** and they had same sex recoupling that one time

 **Royal Bitch (1:46 p.m.):** Fiona wishes she outranked me.

 **Royal Bitch (1:47 p.m.):** Please tell me you are not dumb enough to actually believe reality television is real.

 **Royal Bitch (1:47 p.m.):** I’m sorry, I forgot who I was talking to. Of course you are.

 **Royal Bitch (1:48 p.m.):** I’m so sorry, one non-straight couple. Should we give them the GLAAD Media Award?

 **Me (1:49 p.m):** tomorrows headlines: prince Baz insults Love Island, nation turns against him, has to resign as prince

 **Royal Bitch (1:50 p.m.):** My royalty is a birthright. I can’t resign. Unlike in other countries where they have, for example, extremely replaceable First Sons.

 **Me (1:52 p.m.):** suck my dick

“OMG!” Agatha says happily, “you have a friend! Other than us!”

“I have friends other than you two,” I say defensively.

“Who?” Agatha says. Her tone isn’t cruel- it’s more curious than anything else- which makes this all the more embarrassing.

“Uh, Ebb.” I say.

“It doesn’t count as a friend if they’re paid to associate with you.” Agatha replies.

“Yes it does!” I protest. “Plus, Baz and I are fake friends, I don’t think that counts.”

“Simon,” Agatha says, scrolling through my phone. “The two of you text _every day._ ”

I snatch my phone out of her hands. “Well, yeah, we have to.”

“You had to text him to let him know that Shawn Mendes came out with a new single? That’s contractually obligated of you?”

“Okay, well, _no_ , not technically-”

“According to the text messages-”

“The texts you read without my permission-”

“-you can’t even share your private messages online anyways because of the NDA, so nobody even knows you’re texting.”

“Okay, okay, fine,” I admit, throwing my hands up, “we’re kinda friends now, happy?”

I’m not sure why I’m so reluctant to admit that. It’s not like I’m embarrassed of Baz or anything. I mean, I’m a little embarrassed that I was so wrong about him. He’s actually quite funny, and almost nice when he wants to be. It’s just- I don’t know. ‘Friends’ just isn’t what I’d describe us as. We’re something… else. I just don’t know what.

“Honestly, yeah, Si. I told you he wasn’t so bad.” Agatha says with a smile. “Can we be friends with him now?”

“Don’t sleep with him,” I reply before I can censor myself. Even though I now know that Baz isn’t evil, I still don’t want him with Agatha for some reason.

“Did I say ‘can I fuck him?’. No,” Agatha says with a heavy sigh, “I said ‘can we be friends with him?’. Those two things are not synonymous. I don’t sleep with you or Penny, do I?”

I blush. “Right, right,” I respond quickly, embarrassed by my rudeness. “Of course you guys can.”

“Great! I’ll invite him to my Halloween party, then.” Agatha says with a wide smile. “And that cute ginger friend he has. What’s that guy’s name?”

“Niall.” I respond, remembering seeing his name on my Baz fact sheet. Niall Rothschild, twenty years old, best friends with Baz. They were roommates at Eton, and his family controls the finance industry in most of Europe. He skipped college and went straight to managing his family business’s nonprofit sector.

“Yeah, him. Let’s invite him too.”

The idea of having Baz at the White House for a party made my stomach churn. On one hand, I do want to see him. On the other, we’ve only really been texting since I last saw him. What if it’s awkward in person?

But I agree anyways, since I can’t really think of a real reason not to, other than my nonsensical nerves.

“Great,” Agatha says brightly. “Now, is this the dress or no?” She asks, gesturing down to herself.

“Definitely,” I say, a little too quickly.

She narrows her eyes. “You just want to get out of shopping, don’t you?”

“I just want to get out of shopping.”

* * *

“Okay, I’ll do it this time, but you really need to learn how to tie your own ties,” Penny says, feigning exasperation.

“Oh, yeah, totally,” I agree, and both of us know that’s bullshit.

“You ready for campaign trail, round two?” Penny asks, sounding thrilled by the prospect.

“Yep, can’t wait,” I say sarcastically. “Interviews? Formal wear? Photo ops? All things I’m great at.”

Penny snorts. “You’re not half as bad as you think you are.”

“I am twice as bad as I think I am.” I insist.

“You’re charming, Si. Even unscripted.” Penny says earnestly, but my brain replaces her use of ‘unscripted’ as ‘woefully unprepared’, so my stomach flips uncomfortably with dread.

“Why do I have to introduce Mom too? Why can’t you and Aggie do it yourself.”

“Because we’re the White House Trio, not the White House duo.” She says meaningfully.

“None of our other siblings have to do it,” I whine.

“Premal isn’t doing it because he’s away at school, and Pacey, Priya, and Pip are all too young.”

“Pacey is our age when we started!” I protest.

“Okay, fine. They’re not doing it because their numbers aren’t as high as ours.”

“Are we sure my numbers aren’t fabricated?” I ask, voicing my worst suspicion. That everyone actually hates me. That everyone knows I don’t belong.

“We’re sure, Simon,” Penny says, picking up instantly on my unspoken insecurity. She puts her hand on my shoulder comfortingly. “Trust me. You’re the only one who doesn’t know how great you are.”

I smile, not fully believing her, but feeling better nonetheless. I open my mouth to thank her, but I’m interrupted by Ebb bursting in. She looks uncharacteristically frenzied.

“Okay, okay, okay, okay,” she says quickly. “I didn’t want to have to tell you this, but I have to tell you this, right? You can’t not know. So, yeah, I have to tell you, okay, okay, okay-”

“Ebb, calm down,” Penny says, speaking calmingly to placate her, since she’s starting to cry a little. Ebb is tough as rocks, but she’s tearful behind closed doors.

“Yes, yes, of course,” she says collecting herself. “So, Mr. Humdrum just announced that he’s running for the Republican seat.”

Penny’s mouth drops open. “He _what?_ ” She whispers in panicked disbelief.

“He’s running.” She says regretfully.

I feel the air leave my lungs and my head starts to spin. _Oh fuck,_ I think.

Mr. Humdrum is a far right wing politician. He represents the very worst of America: he’s racist, sexist, homophobic. He’s one of Mitali’s strongest detractors: constantly criticizing her policies, her diplomacy… even her family. He’s accused her of only adopting me for the good press. It’s grossly offensive and categorically untrue, but there are some people who believe it. After Mr. Humdrum said it in an interview, #FirstFakeSon trended on Twitter for four days. It wasn’t a particularly clever hashtag, but it cut deep. I wouldn’t leave the White House for a week.

He’s reprehensible, but he’s got frenzied supporters in the deep red states. He’s the first candidate whose announced their campaign that has any chance of being real competition for Mitali.

“Damage control,” Penny says. “We need to change our introduction speech. I need to talk to Mom. Fuck!”

Penny starts to run out of the room, pausing suddenly at the threshold. She turns around rapidly, and says, “Simon, are you okay?”

I can tell that I’ve gone very pale, and I’m a little worried that I’m going to vomit. “I’m fine,” I lie. “Just go.”

She runs over and takes me into her arms, hugging me tightly. “It’s going to be alright. We won’t let him hurt you again.” She promises, though I know she can’t really promise that. “I need to find Mom, but you’ll be okay, right? It’ll be okay.”

She sounds like she’s convincing herself as much as me, so I nod as earnestly as possible. She smiles bravely and sprints out of the room.

My face falls as soon as she leaves. Ebb looks at me sympathetically. “I’m so sorry. I have to go brief the other staffers. There’s not a lot of time.”

“Oh- oh yeah,” I say, doing my best to look understanding. “Go ahead, I get it.”

She hugs me before running out too.

I let myself fully panic when I’m alone.

This campaign is going to get so dirty. I can feel it already, the heaviness that this election is going to have. The last one wasn’t great, but Mitali’s competitor wasn’t quite so awful last time. Mr. Humdrum, though… it’s like he sucks the air out of the room when he walks in. And he always takes the lowest blows. And there’s no way to stop it. No way to protect myself or the people I love from the months, or, worse, _years,_ of slander ahead.

“Fuck!” I yell, and immediately regret it. I don’t want anyone to hear me lose it.

I start pacing, feeling my skin get hot and prickly. I wish Penny or Agatha or Mitali or Ebb were here, but they’re off dealing with this bombshell too. Everyone I know is dealing with this right now, except…

Without thinking it through, I open up my contacts to Royal Bitch and press the call button. The phone rings one, two, three times, and I worry that maybe this is a mistake, maybe I shouldn’t be calling him, when-

“Hello?” I hear a tired, posh voice say on the other end of the line. I let out a breath I didn’t know I was holding.

“Hi, Baz, uh, I wasn’t sure if I could, um, but I, uh-” I stammer.

“Snow, what possible reason could you have for ringing me at two in the morning?”

_Oh, fuck,_ I think. “Oh my god, Baz, I wasn’t thinking, I’m so sorry, fuck, fuck, fuck-”

“Snow,” He says, sounding very serious all of a sudden, probably feeling my tsunami waves of panic even from across the Atlantic. “I was taking the piss. I was up, already. What’s wrong?”

“Oh, okay.” I say, calming somewhat with the knowledge that I hadn’t woken him. “Why were you up so late?”

“Your thing, first.” He deflects. “Why’d you call?”

“Okay, so, you know how I have my Mom’s campaign launch today? And that I’m supposed to give a speech?”

“I believe you’ve mentioned it once or twice.” Baz says, an edge of jovial teasing in his voice. I’ve mentioned it at least a dozen times this week, my texts ranging from “ _do you want me to send you campaign buttons with my face on it?_ ” to “ _if I die of stage fright plz make sure I don’t have an open casket funeral_.” All of his shitty responses, respectively “ _I will get you on a terrorist watch list if you do that_ ” and “ _good, no one needs to see your stupid face anyways_ ”, actually served to make me feel exponentially less nervous about this.

Until now, that is.

“Well, do you know who Mr. Humdrum is?” I ask.

“Yeah, vaguely,” Baz says, with an edge to his voice. “Fascist arsehole who can’t keep his fucking mouth shut?”

I laugh loudly out of surprise. “Sounds like you more than vaguely know who he is.”

“Yeah, well. I am the future King of England. I have to know my way around politics.” He says casually.

“Obviously,” I say with a hint of amusement in my voice.

“So,” He says, “what about him?”

I sigh dramatically. “He’s running against my Mom.”

Baz pauses for a long while. “Oh,” He says finally.

“And I just, _ugh-_ ” I groan in frustration. “He announced it less than an hour ago, _right_ before I’m supposed to give a speech for my Mom’s campaign, so Penny’s reworking it to take this curveball into account, and I barely knew the original speech, not to mention one she’s whipping out at the drop of a hat like some kind of political wizard, and-”

“Simon,” Baz interrupts, and the use of my actual name shocks me enough to make me forget what I was going to say next. My heart’s in my throat when he continues talking softly, "Breathe."

I take a deep inhale and close my eyes. I can hear Baz’s breathing on the line, and I try to time my breaths with his.

“Okay,” I say, somewhat calmed. “It’s just… he’s said some things about me in the media. And about my family. And I feel like it’s just going to get worse, now. And I don’t know what the right thing to say or do or feel is.”

“Well,” Baz says, “I’m assuming you didn’t call me because you want me to have him assassinated.”

“You jump to that solution far too quickly,” I say. “I feel like there’s a step or two that we can take before we get to murder.”

Baz laughs, and the knot in my chest loosens. “Okay, fair.” Baz replies. “I don’t know what to say about the media… I mean, they’re going to say what they say. Even if it’s completely bollocks. That’s just what the tabloids are like. You just have to ignore it, or it’ll drive you mad.” Baz sighs, and I’m surprised by how much exasperation is in his tone. I’ve never seen anything bad about him in the media. I guess there has to be _something_ though, or at least something about his other family members, because I can tell he’s speaking from experience. “But your speech, you can control that.”

“I’m shit at talking, though.”

“No you’re not, Snow.” He pauses. “Okay, maybe you are, just a little. But you’re still good on camera.”

I remember the day of Good Morning Britain, when he told me I was fine in interviews. I thought he was messing with me, being sarcastic. But the way he’s talking now, it’s like he’s actually watched a public appearance of mine. I want to ask him, but I reckon he’ll say no either way, so I don’t.

“You think?”

“Yeah. Managed to embarrass me last time, and that’s no small feat.”

I laugh, surprised. “Really? I feel like I just ended up embarrassing myself.”

“Rest assured all parties were embarrassed.”

“Is this supposed to be a pep talk?” I tease.

“Give me a break. It’s the middle of the night.”

“Oh, yeah…” I trail off. “Well, I better let you go. But uh, thanks.”

“Don’t mention it,” Baz says, “seriously, ever. I have a reputation to uphold.”

I snort. “Your secrets are safe with me, Baz. Goodnight.”

“Goodnight,” he replies softly, and I hear the click that means the call has been disconnected.

I take another couple deep breaths before going to find Penny.

* * *

“You ready, Si?” Penny asks, squeezing my hand supportively.

“Yeah,” I say, “I got this.”

Penny smiles widely, and we hear a staffer announce, “and now, to introduce Mitali Bunce, here’s Penelope Bunce, Simon Snow, and Agatha Wellbelove!”

When we walk on stage. I’m blinded by lights and cameras flashing. I see stars flash, even when I briefly close my eyes, before reminding myself, hearing the advice in Penny’s voice, _keep your eyes above the crowd, Simon_. I find a spot to concentrate near the ceiling and put a smile on my face.

Agatha’s opening with a true story about our first week at the White House, when she kept getting turned around trying to find her room. It’s sweet and nostalgic and ends with the message that everyone belongs in this new America, even if you get a little lost along the way. It’s incredibly well written, and I can’t tell if Agatha or Penny came up with it. I’d usually say Penny did, since she writes most of our speeches, but it has a surprising wit to it that is uniquely Agatha.

Penny talks next, about all the progress this administration has made in the last three years, about how much a President like her mom has inspired her. How proud she is of America and her mother.

Then it’s my turn, and I shove down my panic. I look at the speech Penny’s written for me in clear, big block lettering, and the words are swimming on the page a little. My dyslexia gets worse when I’m anxious, and that’s the last thing I need right now.

I try to focus on one thing, just one thing, to ground me. I think about Baz’s uncharacteristically soft voice on the phone, imagine him saying, ‘you’re still good on camera’, and start talking.

“Mitali Bunce adopted me when I was eleven years old. Penny and I had met at school, and were inseparable from the moment she offered to tutor me in English…. which, by the way, was the first thing she ever said to me. It was a really representative of what the rest of our friendship would be like,” I flash a smile at Penny as the audience laughs at my improvisation. “Anyways, Mitali and Martin Bunce took me in, and have treated me as their own from day one. I was a quiet foster kid from the wrong side of the tracks, and if you told me when I was eleven that I’d be standing in front of all of you today, I’d say you were crazy. But that’s what America is about- the unexpected chances. The opportunity to chase the American Dream is everywhere, if you just know where to look. For me, I’m looking at my mom, your president, a woman who defied all odds and expectations when she was elected. A woman who will continue to do amazing work in her second term as your President.”

The crowd goes wild, and I steady myself for the next part. “There are always going to be people out there who tell you that you don’t belong. That want to tear down others to pull themselves up.” I say, and a hush falls over the crowd. Everyone knows I’m talking about Humdrum. “But that’s not what America is about. It’s about bravery, and integrity, and progress. It’s about looking to the future, not the past.” Penny always has the right words. “So are y’all ready for the future?”

I can’t hear anything over the deafening applause. “Okay,” I say through my wide smile that I don’t even have to fake, “then here’s Mitali Bunce!”

* * *

**Royal Bitch (11:14 p.m.):** So. How’d your speech go?

 **Royal Bitch (11:15 p.m.):** Did you choke?

I find myself smiling despite myself. Baz never texts me first.

**Me (11:20 p.m.):** Penny’s speech was perfect, as usual

 **Me (11:21 p.m.):** and I didn’t even stutter

 **Royal Bitch (11:25 p.m.):** I find that hard to believe.

I laugh out loud, and look up an article talking about our speech.

**Me (11:32 p.m.):** [link to Buzzfeed article titled ‘White House Trio wows crowd at Bunce D.C. Campaign Rally!’]

 **Me (11:32 p.m.):** read it and weep Pitch

 **Royal Bitch (11:39 p.m.):** You know I could have just googled that, right?

 **Royal Bitch (11:40 p.m.):** And, serious question, do you consider Buzzfeed to be a reliable news source?

 **Me (11:43 p.m.):** if u could have just googled it then why’d you text me

 **Me (11:44 p.m.):** and tbh these days it’s better than Fox News or CNN

 **Royal Bitch (11:47 p.m.):** Your country is a mess. You all should have thought twice about rebelling against the crown.

 **Royal Bitch (11:47 p.m.):** I know firsthand how tetchy you are about public speaking, so I wanted to hear it from you.

 **Me (11:49 p.m.):** I don’t need advice from the figurehead of a country in the midst of Brexit ok

 **Me (11:50 p.m.):** but, seriously, thank you. calling you really helped.

 **Royal Bitch (11:56 p.m.):** Anytime, Snow.

 **Royal Bitch (11:57 p.m.):** And by anytime, I mean at any reasonable hour, taking into consideration the crucial detail of our time differences.

 **Royal Bitch (11:57 p.m.):** Stop calling me in the middle of the night. I’m not your booty call.

I snort with laughter, and set my phone down so I can get some sleep. I’m still smiling a little when I slip into unconsciousness.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Simon: fellas is it gay to think about your ex-nemesis in a time of crisis?? asking for a friend
> 
> Honestly I can’t even be mad that Simon’s such a clueless bisexual because when I was sixteen I used to be like “oh I’m not into girls because I only hook up with them when I’m at parties!”....like what the fuck kind of logic was that, past me
> 
> Already going to start writing the next chapter because this next Baz POV is what my Snowbaz heart has been waiting eagerly for yay!!! 
> 
> Let me know what you thought about this chapter!! Comment if ur a messy queer too!! until next time friends


	6. Adding Up The Equation of Teenage Grudges And Wedding Cakes And Two A.M. Texts

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Baz visits Simon for Halloween.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Alternative Title (generously supplied by Nodusormu): Gay Panic! At The Disco
> 
> When you have time to write fanfic at work instead of, you know... working >>
> 
> I’m writing to put my anxious energy into SOMETHING since my GAD is acting up and it’s actually kinda working to calm me, so that means I’ve written and edited over 20,000 words (!!!!!) in like a week lol I’m a mess but at least I have content 
> 
> TW: mental health discussion and mentions of suicidal thoughts  
> TW: homophobia (internalized as well)

**Baz**

**American Idiot (1:24 p.m.):** 8 a.m. briefings should be illegal

 **American Idiot (1:25 p.m.):** what do I really need to be briefed on for this??? How can I fuck up a Halloween party???????

 **Me (1:36 p.m.):** Are you forgetting that you caused an international scandal at the royal wedding just three months ago?

 **American Idiot (1:39 p.m.):** ancient history!!!!!!

 **American Idiot (1:39 p.m.):** tho u love to bring that up huh

 **American Idiot (1:40 p.m.):** somehow u always forget you were in that scandal too

 **American Idiot (1:40 p.m.):** it takes two to fuck up a wedding cake

 **Me (1:42 p.m.):** Well, I’m not sure that’s technically true.

 **American Idiot (1:44 p.m.):** it is in our case Pitch. were in this together

“Are you texting your boyfriend?” Mordelia asks in a teasing voice. She’s got her hand on her hip and she’s been obviously practicing raising one eyebrow. Right now she looks like a mirror image of me when I’m being condescending.

“Shhh!” I say, panicking a little. “Quiet!”

“It’s not like anyone heard me.” She says, rolling her eyes.

I look around to make sure that we’re still alone in the ballroom. (Which, thankfully, we are).

“Still, Mordy. You can’t just say things like that.”

“True things?”

I narrow my eyes at her. “Unless you want me to tell Mr. Minotaur you’d rather have your posture coaching with him than me, you’d better keep your mouth shut.”

With a dramatic sigh, she motions locking her lips in the universal “my lips are sealed” motion. Though, she’s still got a slight smirk on her face.

Simon Snow, my boyfriend. What a world that would be. I don’t think that could even happen in my dreams. Though, not for my subconscious’s lack of trying. I always wake up right before he goes to kiss me, because that’s when I realize that I’m dreaming. I know there’s no universe in which he would want me.

Although...

Sometimes he texts me things that are objectively flirty. Even I, with my gross lack of experience, can recognize that we sometimes venture out of Platonic Straight Bros™ territory.

Like that time he texted a photo of me on the cover of OK Weekly playing football with the message: “how the fuck do u always look so good?? ur literally not sweating”. I had been drinking coffee in a morning finance meeting, and I choked so badly Fiona had to wack me on the back a half dozen times before I caught my breath. I was blushing until nightfall that day, thinking about that text. The poor grammar didn’t even bother me.

Or the time he told me he was bored at a charity event, and that he wished that I was there. I had to force down the instinct to ask him what we’d be doing if I _were_ there. Instead, I panicked and replied: “Why? Can’t go to an event without a babysitter?”. He still sent back four laughing crying emojis, even though I was being shitty. He always responds to my snarky commentary good-naturedly now.

Or how he’s always sending me all these shirtless selfies in bed, looking impossibly fit with his bedhead and square-framed glasses. I never reply to those, because if I tried to respond, I wouldn't have enough will-power to not tell him that if I were there, I would mess up his already wild curls and lick every inch of his perfect body and-

“Baz, was that good?” Mordelia asks, interrupting me from my constant thoughts of Snow. She’s standing straight as a pin with fifteen pounds of books balanced on her head, looking every bit the part of a royal with her ringlet curls and pink ball gown.

“That was satisfactory, Mordy,” I say, secretly proud of her. She’s even better at appearances than I was at that age. She curtsies without even wobbling the books on her head, the show off. “By the way, I can’t go horseback riding with you this Saturday.”

“Why?” She pouts.

“I’m going to a Halloween party.” I try to say, casually, but Mordelia is too clever to drop it.

“Could you be talking about Agatha Wellbelove’s annual White House Halloween Party?”

“Perhaps,” I say, and Mordelia takes it as the ‘yes’ it really is.

“Can I come?” Mordelia asks.

“No, you’re too young.” I say. I had this conversation with Fiona as well, except I told her she couldn’t come because she was too old. She thumped me upside the head for that, but it was worth saying to see the hilariously disgusted look she gave me.

“No, I’m not.”

“Yes, you are. I’ll bring you back those disgusting candies you like, though.”

“Pop Rocks?” She asks, brightening up. I confirm that, and she relents. “Okay, fine. I wanted to go Trick or Treating anyways.”

She goes to go add another book on her head just as my phone beeps.

**American Idiot (1:55 p.m.):** hey will u dress up as Edward Cullen for the party

 **Me (1:56 p.m.):** Why in God’s name would I do that?

 **American Idiot (1:58 p.m.):** Cuz ur a vampire

 **Me (2:00 p.m.):** Pardon?

 **American Idiot (2:01 p.m.):** well like not LITERALLY a vampire

 **American Idiot (2:01 p.m.):** obviously

 **American Idiot (2:01 p.m.):** just like

 **American Idiot (2:02 p.m.):** u know u got the nose and dark hair and widows peak and the smooth skin and like

 **American Idiot (2:02 p.m.):** u look like a vampire dude

 **Me (2:05 p.m.):**...are you trying to insult me?

 **American Idiot (2:06 p.m.):** no!

 **American Idiot (2:07 p.m.):** c’mon do it for the gram

 **American Idiot (2:07 p.m.):** you’d look pretty with glitter all over you Baz

My blush starts all the way in my toes and spreads to the top of my head in an instant’s time.

Snow really doesn’t realize how gay he sounds, sometimes.

**Me (2:14 p.m):** Dream on, Snow.

* * *

I’m trying, and failing, to fall asleep on this private plane to America.

I try to ignore Niall’s eyes on me. He knows better than anyone about my sleeping problems, having been my roommate at Eton for five years.

“Hey, mate,” he whispers, “Did you sleep well last night?”

Well, I got into bed at ten, which is quite early for me, so I definitely made an effort. But when I closed my eyes, I couldn’t help but imagine every possible scenario this Halloween party could end up in. I get there, and I’ve only been invited as a joke, and Snow gets someone to poor pig’s blood on me like I’m Carrie White. I get there, and Snow’s dating that actress from the Spider-Man movies and I spend all night watching them grope each other on the dance floor. I get there, and Snow says he can tell I’m in love with him, and that’s very sweet, but he’s as straight as an arrow, and maybe we shouldn’t be friends anymore, and-

“Baz, I know you’re awake.” Niall says kindly.

I sigh and sit up. “No, I didn’t sleep well.”

Once I finally did fall asleep, I had a nightmare that my mother had visited my room as a ghost and told me that I was a disappointment and that no son of hers would ever be queer. I woke up at 5 a.m. in a cold sweat with my heart racing. I don’t know what my Mum’s position on homosexuality was, but if her views were anything like my father’s… well, that very well might be how she’d feel. Those kinds of nightmares are the worst: not the ones with monsters and blood and gore, but the ones that feel like they could be real. Those are the nightmares that haunt me even into the morning.

“Do you need to ask Dr. Ashton to up your Remeron dose?” Niall asks. I’m always touched with how much he remembers about my mental health issues, to a point where, despite the fact that I've been on dozens of medications, he always manages to remember which ones I’m currently taking.

“I’m maxed out on it,” I say softly. The Remeron worked really well for about six months before it’s effectiveness began to wane. It might be time to try a new one, but I hate changing medications. I never know what side effects I might get, though I’ve experienced them all: nausea, vomiting, headaches, dizziness, fatigue. You name it, I’ve had it. Worst of all, some antidepressants have the side effect of suicidal thoughts, which is so counterintuitive and so gut-wrenchingly horrible that it scares me shitless to switch up my meds. It’s not like I need even worse thoughts than my brain can provide on its own.

“Okay, just go easy on the alcohol, mate,” Niall says, “it gets you loopy the less you sleep.”

I know he’s referring to finals week our last week of Eton. I didn’t sleep for three days in order to study, and we headed to the roof and popped the champagne not thirty minutes after our last class. Two glasses in, and I was on the edge of building screaming “I’m flying, Jack!”. Niall had to practically tackled me to get me to get away from the ledge, and Dev punched me so hard in the arm for scaring them I was bruised for a week and a half.

“Yeah, yeah,” I say, dismissively, knowing I’m going to need at least one drink to get myself to even talk to Simon tonight.

“There’s no reason to be nervous.”

“I’m not,” I snap defensively.

“Didn’t say you were. Just that there’s no need to be.”

I sigh, unsure how to respond, and Possibelf mercifully pops her head out of the cockpit to let us know that we’re about to land in D.C.

“Aces,” Niall says, “hey, do you think they’ll have cake?”

Luckily, the rest of the plane ride is dedicated to debating what desserts we think will be there.

* * *

“Hi, hi!” Penelope Bunce yells over the new pop song that’s blaring through the surround sound speakers. The White House ballroom has been totally transformed into a haunted mansion, with skeletons and cobwebs and other Halloween decorum. “You came!”

“Yes. Well. We RSVPed.” I reply dryly.

Penelope smiles widely at that, probably mistaking it for a joke. She’s wearing a red skirt and an orange sweater, with matching orange high socks. She’s replaced her usually rounded glasses with square rims, and her hair is a straight and short wig, cut with blunt bangs. I’m about to ask her what she’s supposed to be, when she says, “come on, Simon and Aggie are in the karaoke room!”

She leads us to a smaller side room off the ballroom, and this room is illuminated by neon lights and covered in makeshift booths reminiscent of a Japanese karaoke parlor. On stage, there’s Snow and Agatha, poorly singing Barbie Girl by Aqua. I’m so distracted by Simon’s bright laughter and the carefree way that he’s moving his body that Niall has to drag me by the wrist to get me to the booth Penelope is heading towards. There’s a Latino guy our age sitting there with a green V-neck and a small chihuahua with big pointed ears on his lap.

“Oh my god you have a dog!” Niall says excitedly.

“Part of the costume,” Penny says with a smile.

“ _Excuse me_ ,” the boy with the dog says, “Moose is much more than part of a costume.”

“His name isn’t Moose, today,” Penny says, holding up the collar to him. I try to read it but it’s too dark in here.

“I’m Micah,” the bloke introduces himself with his arm outstretched to shake hands, “Penny’s boyfriend.”

After I’ve made my introduction and slid into the booth, I turn my eyes back to Snow.

He looks fantastic. I mean, he always does, but still. He’s got tight fitting blue jeans on, with a tight white V-neck. He’s got an orange neck tie around his neck that should be turning me off but is having the opposite effect. I spare a glance at Wellbelove and see she’s got a short tight purple dress on, a green necktie, and thigh high purple boots, and I put the pieces together.

“Oh,” I say with a huff of a laugh, “you’re the Scooby Doo gang.”

“Yes! Thank you!” Penny says happily. “Some people are not getting our costumes _at all_ . A Calvin Klein model asked me earlier if I came as _myself_.”

Honestly, Penelope’s Velma costume isn’t as far off from her usual nerdy style, but her tone tells it would be unwise to point this out. Luckily, I’m saved from answering when Snow slides into the booth next to me.

“Hey, Baz!” Snow says cheerily, and _oh._ He’s never looked at me like _this_ before. So unapologetically glad to see me. I’ve only seen this charm unleashed on others before now, and it disarms me for a moment. I forget how to speak.

“Hi, Simon, I’m Niall Rothschild,” Niall says, saving me from my awkward silence. Simon smiles at him, though, I notice with a twist in my stomach, not as brightly as he smiled at me.

“Hi, Niall! It’s nice to finally meet you.” He says politely.

“And I’m Agatha,” Wellbelove adds, holding her hand out delicately with a flirtatious smile. I see Niall’s eyes widen a little as he takes her in.

“Agatha,” Niall says, and instead of shaking her hand, he kisses it. Wellbelove giggles, and I resist the urge to roll my eyes. Niall has always been a ladies man. And a man’s man. He’s an incorrigible flirt. “May I say, you are even prettier in person than you are in pictures, if that’s even possible.”

I turn to Simon, expecting a reaction like the one he gave me for dancing with Agatha at Dev’s wedding. But he’s just smiling good-naturedly at them, completely unbothered. He turns to me and whispers, “hey, you wanna drink?” I smell the vodka on him, he’s leaned in so close. “We’re too young to go to the bar, officially, but we’ve got a bottle stashed in a private room.”

I get goosebumps, but I manage to answer. “I forgot this trash country won’t let you drink until you’re 21. You can die for your country in its numerous bullshit wars, but you can’t get a pint at a pub.”

“Hey,” He says, mock stern, “You’re on American soil now. Don’t make me have you shipped to Guantanamo Bay.”

“I dare you to try that, Snow.” I sneer as he leads me away from the booth and to the hallway. With a jolt of electricity in my chest, I realize that none of the others are following us, so it’s just the two of us when he leads me to a large coat closet.

I valiantly resist the urge to make an “in the closet” joke.

He pulls out a bottle of Grey Goose vodka, and I say, “Seriously? You couldn’t afford better alcohol than that?”

He pouts, “Do you want it or not?”

I suppose I do, so I agree with a sigh and a nod. He hands me the bottle, and I raise an eyebrow at him.

“You want me to drink this straight? What are we, American frat boys?”

“Nah, I didn’t rush. Didn’t want to deal with the hazing.” He says, taking my joke too seriously. I close my eyes and take a swig from the bottle, flinching a little at the bitter taste. When I hand him the vodka, he takes a shot himself. When he’s done, he smiles widely. “You’re missing your vampire teeth for your costume,” he says jovially, pointing at my black leather jacket, black skinny jeans, and white V-neck.

“No, Snow. I’m Danny Zuko.” I reply with mock exasperation, running a self-conscious hand through my slicked back hair.

“ _You are supreme, the chick’ll cream for greased lightning!”_ He slurs, telling me this isn’t the first time tonight he’s come to the closet for vodka. I take the bottle from him to take another deep drink, to catch up with him and to avoid him seeing my blush when I think, _the chicks are not the one I want to make cream, Snow._

“I think you’re ready to dance now!” Snow says happily, hiding the bottle again. He grabs my hand to lead me back out to the party, and I desperately want to say, _Simon Snow, are you straight? Sometimes you really don’t act straight_ , but I manage to bite my tongue.

I can feel the bass of the music in my chest as we step into the ballroom. “Oh my fucking God!” Snow yells, “this is my song!” He drags me by the hand over to where Penny, Agatha, Micah, and Niall are dancing. Penny runs over to meet Snow halfway, screaming, “this is our song!”.

“Did he just say ‘I’m in the club with my homies, trying to get a little V’?” I ask, confused.

Simon looks at me like I’m not human. “Don’t you know this song?”

“Uh, no.”

“Baz!” He yells with a laugh, and starts to sing to me, looking me dead in the eyes, “ _Conversation got heavy! She had me feelin' like she's ready to blow! She saying, come get me, come get me!”_

I can hear his off-beat singing even over the loud music, and I can’t resist smiling a little. “Dance, Baz!” He says, moving his hips in a way that, quite frankly, should be illegal. My mouth goes dry at the sight of Simon Snow’s gorgeous hips swinging, especially when he pulls me close and grabs _my_ hips to move them, “C’mon! Don’t tell me you don’t know how to dance!”

I clear my throat, and say in a voice I pray doesn’t come out strangled, “I know how to _dance_ , just not like _this._ ” _This_ being in the incredibly sexy way Simon Snow is doing it, looking like a Greek god under the strobe lights.

“Try!” He yells, “ _yeah, yeah yeah, yeah yeah, yeah_ !” He’s getting lower and lower and I’m thankful it’s too dark for him to notice the growing problem in my jeans. I force my hips to sway and my knees to bounce to the beat, and Simon smiles at me appreciatively. “ _Yeah yeah, yeah,_ Baz!” He screams in tune with the beat, and I desperately want to hear him say my name like _that_ again, loud and breathy and inhibited, so I put my whole body into the movement and Simon moves closer to me.

“Of fucking _course_ you’re a natural,” He yells into my ear, shaking his head and smiling at me disbelievingly. My whole body flushes with pleasure at his words.

We spend the night like this, running back to the coat closet for swigs from the bottle and then back to the dance floor to dance to trashy American music. If I was doing this with anyone else, I don’t think it would be this, well, _fun_ , but Snow’s mere presence turns the volume up on everything. He makes the colors brighter and the music louder and the laughing easier. The drunker I get, the more he seems like the answer to a question I would never be able to ask.

“Hey, let’s get a photo of you two!” A photographer asks when the six of us- me, Simon, Agatha, Penny, Micah, and Niall- are taking a break from dancing to grab some water. At first, I think the photographer's asking me and Simon, and my heart jumps at the possibility of having a photograph to commemorate this night together. But then, I realize she’s talking to Simon and Agatha, and I frown despite myself.

“Oh totally!” Simon says, pulling Agatha to his side. “Wanna do it over here, with the pumpkin patch?” He asks, and the photographer nods appreciatively. I watch as he walks over for his photo op with her without sparing me a glance.

I tell myself not to jealous. That I have no reason to be jealous. That he doesn’t think of her that way, anyways, that’s what he told me at Dev’s wedding. But as they pose together, I realize that Freddy and Daphne are a couple, that they showed up in a _couple’s costume._ That only becomes more obvious as they take a picture holding hands. When he puts his arms around her, with his wide smile. When she kisses his cheek, with her foot popped out, and they look so perfect together they could be a stock photo. When she jumps into his arms to play the frightened damsel in distress, the little patience I had snaps. I politely excuse myself, saying that I need to get some air, and that’s not even technically a lie. The world is spinning a little, though I don’t know if it’s from the alcohol or the envy.

_What did I think was going to happen?_ I think to myself when I find a quiet, dark garden on the side of the building and I’m finally somewhere quiet enough to think. I sit on the ledge of a grand marble fountain, and let out a long-suffering sigh. Did I think Simon Snow was going to pull me aside, and whisper in my ear, “ _I have feelings for you. I always have, and that’s why I was such a prick to you for so long, because I wanted you so desperately,”_ and then give me my first kiss? This isn’t a romantic comedy. Snow might be a leading man, but I’m not. I’m an extra in the movie of my own life. I’m the closeted gay heir that will be forced to marry some noblewoman who will give me heirs and who’ll be bound by so many NDA’s that she’ll practically be gagged. Shag a million boys who look like Simon Snow on the side and break every one of their hearts so that they will feel the way that I feel right now. Knowing that I’m so close to Simon Snow but never close enough to touch is a special kind of torture.

Romance and happy endings might be possible, but not for me. I’ve had my hands tied behind my back from the moment I was born, and I’m never going to get out of these chains. The prison of my life might be beautiful and luxurious, but it’s a prison nonetheless. I’m still not free.

“Baz?” A husky voice calls from behind me, and I jump, startled by the sudden break of silence. “What are you doing out here?”

I turn, and Simon Snow’s standing there, illuminated by the string of lights hanging up on the trees of the garden, looking like a teenage dream. His mouth is hanging open and his cheeks are flushed, and it makes my heart twist violently and painfully in my chest.

“What does it look like?” I ask coldly to mask the sound of unshed tears in my throat.

“Uh, I don’t know,” he says earnestly, and sits beside me slowly. He’s too close and not close enough all at once; I can smell his Axe body spray but he’s too far for me to feel his warmth. “You just disappeared on me, and it’s taken me a half hour to find you.”

“The party was… too much,” I say in a guarded tone. _Translation: you are too much, Simon Snow. In all the best and worst ways._

Snow nods enthusiastically. “Yeah. Parties are more Agatha’s kind of thing than mine. She’s great at them, but I’ve never gotten the hang of it.”

The mention of Agatha has my skin bursting into flames. I’m so jealous that I start to feel uncomfortable in my own skin. “You two are awfully cute together,” I say, and immediately regret it. I should have listened to Niall, and not have had so much to drink, because I’m feeling reckless. But I just couldn’t get myself to say no every time Simon asked to sneak off to take a swig in the coat closet. I didn’t want to leave his side.

Snow’s brow furrows in confusion. “You mean, Agatha, Micah, Penny and I, right? All of our costumes are coordinated.”

“Yeah,” I say impatiently. “But the two of you were the ones having a couples photo shoot.”

“We… what?” Snow asks, sounding bewildered. “Are you talking about that photographer? Agatha hired her to take photos of all of us together. After Agatha took pictures with me, she took some with Penny, and then Micah, and then of all four of us and Moose. Aggie is crazy popular on social media, so we all always have to get a million shots with her before she finds one that meets her aesthetic.”

I suddenly feel disgustingly self-conscious for my jealous outburst. Snow is looking at me like he’s trying to figure me out, so I change the subject quickly before he can get to the truth. “Do you ever wish you were just some anonymous person out in the world?”

“What?” Snow says, looking like my topic shift gave him a strong dose of whiplash. “Uh, yeah, I guess. I mean, I was for most of my life.” He pauses, looking at me. “Do you know anything about me, like, before Mitali adopted me?”

I shake my head. The timeline of Simon Snow starts at him, aged eleven. A photo of him at a Congressional dinner, a shy smile on his face and his arms tightly wrapped around Mitali’s neck. Simon sighs, staring down at his fingertips, and starts talking softly. “Well… it wasn’t great.” He says, pausing like he’s trying to decide whether to tell me about it. “My father got my mother pregnant when she was just sixteen. She ran away from home to be with him, but she died during childbirth. And he… wasn’t a great guy. He was a deadbeat, and a drunk, and he died driving home from a bar when I was seven, so I ended up in care. I was a bit of a fighter, though, so I never stayed in a home for long. And then I met Penny, and her family, and they took me in, and everything changed. I didn’t feel invisible anymore.”

He finally looks up at me, and I expect to see tears in his eyes, but they’re dry and intense. “Not being anonymous anymore isn’t always easy. But now I’m seen, you know?”

I don’t know what to say. I want to say something kind and understanding, but instead what comes out of my mouth is: “Wow, for someone who's so shit with words, that was really poetic.”

Snow looks shocked, like I’ve just kicked a football at his face. I’m about to awkwardly apologize, but then, he throws his head back in unrestrained laughter. “You’re a real jerk, you know that?” He asks, but there’s no malice in it; rather, there’s even a bit of affection that makes my heart swell.

“I’ve been told that once or twice.” I reply, biting back a smile.

He shakes his head, still smiling. “And I know what your answer would be. You wouldn’t want to be anonymous.”

“Oh?” I ask, raising an eyebrow.

“Nope. You must like the attention too much, Perfect Prince Baz.” He jokes, a smile playing on his lips.

I laugh bitterly, “as if.”

“No, really. It must be fun to have it all. If you were anonymous, you’d miss all your adoring groupies.” He says airily, smiling. I think I’m imagining it, but there seems to be a slight edge to his voice.

I know he’s only teasing, but his comments feel like sandpaper on my heart anyways. I narrow my eyes at him, and his grin falters. “You don’t know anything about me.”

“Woah,” he says, throwing his hands up as if in surrender, “I didn’t mean to strike a chord…”

I look over at him and he’s got a guilty expression. I sigh, my head swimming with contradictory inebriated thoughts. All _this boy is an idiot_ and _this boy is heaven sent_ and _I want to punch him_ and _I really want to snog him_.

“The crown can just be very… limiting.” I say, forcing myself to soften my voice and to watch my tongue.

“Yeah?” He asks, pushing me to go on.

“There are… people… I want to be with, but I can’t. Because I’m the prince.” I probably wouldn’t say that sober, but here, in the quiet, private garden, I can’t hold the words completely back.

Simon laughs, and I look at him quizzically. “ _What_ is so funny?” I demand.

“The idea of you struggling to get a date is hilarious. You are the prince of England. What girl wouldn’t want to go out with you?”

“Well I don’t want just any _girl_ to go out with me.” I answer, feeling all the blood in my body rush to my head.

Simon cocks his head curiously. “I’m not following.”

“You’re not,” I deadpan, unsure how I could be any clearer. My resolve to bite my tongue is weakening rapidly.

“No.”

“You are as thick as they come, Snow,” I say, and before I can think it through, I grab him by the two sides of his face and smash my lips against his.

I don’t know what I’m doing. I quickly flip through every romance novel I’ve ever read in my head, and do what they said happened in these situations.

I open my mouth slightly, and Simon gasps into it. I experimentally let my tongue slide into his mouth, and I think he likes it because he hums a little appreciatively.

I’m kissing Simon Snow, and it feels like fireworks have gone off in my chest.

I’m kissing Simon Snow, and it’s everything.

I’m kissing Simon Snow.

I’m kissing a _boy._

I’m the crown prince of England and I’m kissing the First Son of the United States. At the White House.

I pull back, and look into Simon’s wide blue eyes, and I know I’ve made a grave mistake. He’s looking at me like- I don’t know. But I’ve certainly never seen this expression on him before. His pupils are so blown, he must be wasted. He’s gaping at me like I just did something unbelievable. Because _I did._

I just kissed Simon Snow.

Oh fuck, fuck, fuck.

I barely manage to stammer out a “oh, fuck, sorry, i-” before I’m running across the lawn and away from Snow.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> If Baz isn’t the definition of Gay Panic then my name isn’t Annabelle Lux
> 
> Which
> 
> It isn’t
> 
> But still.
> 
> Thanks for reading!! <3


	7. Sexual Exploration With Foreign Monarchs: A Gray Area

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Simon and Baz meet again after their Halloween kiss.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> This chapter is the beginning of why this fic is rated E don’t say I didn’t warn y’all! Enjoy!!!

**Simon**

I walk into my bedroom, ready to jump onto my bed and binge watch Veronica Mars with the generous bag of dark chocolate covered espresso beans Ebb just bought for me. But I notice immediately that my room isn’t empty like it should be, because Agatha and Penny are in here with a large white banner that has “Intervention” written on it in large red letters.

“Uh….” I say, confused. “Have I just walked into an episode of How I Met Your Mother?”

“I told you he’d know we jacked this idea from T.V. The series is on Netflix,” Agatha whispers.

“Still a cool idea,” Penny whispers back, though not half as discreetly. Though, as usual, neither of them are being remotely discreet.

“Y’all?” I interrupt before they get on a roll. “What are you two doing right now?”

“Oh, yeah.” Agatha says, like I’ve just reminded her of my presence, though this is _my_ room she’s in. “This is your intervention.”

“I see that…” I say. “Why?”

“Because your mopiness is bumming us out.” Agatha deadpans, and Penny stomps on her foot. “Ow! I mean, we are worried about you.”

“Why?” I say, though I suspect I know the answer already.

“You’ve been a wreck since the Halloween party.” Penny responds.

“Have _not_.” I lie.

“Simon. You skipped most of your classes this week.” Penny says, sounding a little too much like her mom for my taste.

“I’m sick,” I say with a frown.

“Yeah, lovesick,” Agatha mutters, and I send her a glare.

“Si, we’re just… worried. Okay? After Baz left D.C., you’ve been acting weird. Did you guys have… a fight, or something?”

Or something.

“Not exactly,” I reply biting my lip.

“Then what happened?” Agatha presses.

I didn’t expect him to kiss me. The first few seconds, my head was just screaming at the top of its lungs, my thoughts forming as exclamation points and question marks instead of sentences, or phrases, or even words. But then he opened his mouth to deepen the kiss and.

Wow.

_Is this what kissing is supposed to feel like_? I wondered, but before I could decide, he pulled away.

And then he ran before I could get a word in.

Figures. That bastard always has to get the last word.

“We... kissed.” I finally reply, hoping they could help me sort out my jumbled thoughts.

I expect the two of them to look surprised. Yell “ _what!?”_ in unison. Maybe scream a little. Maybe think that I’m just messing with them.

But they both look at each other, and grin maniacally.

“You owe me 20 dollars,” Agatha says in a smug voice to Penny.

“What!?” Penny says, “No, the bet was before or after Halloween. You predicted before Halloween, and I said after, so if it was 12:01 a.m. or later, I win.” Penny turns to me with open curiosity. “What time did you guys kiss?”

I gape at them in disbelief. “I don’t know, I wasn’t wearing a fucking watch!” I say angrily. “Don’t you care about how I feel about this?”

They both look sheepish, their amused grins falling off their faces rapidly. They both rush over to me and envelop me in a tight group bear hug. “Oh, Si.” Agatha says affectionately. “Of course we do.”

“Yeah, we’re sorry,” Penny says, and I know she means it because she rarely apologizes. “Just… we thought this was a good thing?”

“Yeah, I mean, haven’t you wanted to stick it to him for like, years?” Agatha says with her usual lack of tact.

I make a choking noise. “What- no- I- _what?”_ I stammer.

“Oh shit.” Agatha pulls back. “Did you not know that?” She asks me and then turns to Penny, “does he not know that? I thought we were there already.”

“ _What?_ ” I repeat.

“Simon…” Penny says gently. “What is your heterosexual explanation for your obsession with Baz?

“We’re not- I’m not _obsessed-_ ” I try to argue, but Penny holds up her hand to cut me off from what was going to be a pretty weak argument.

“You once made me watch an hour long YouTube compilation of his interviews so you could, quote unquote, _prove he was up to something.”_

“Okay, that was justified. He had made some really cryptic remarks to me at the U.N. Summit and-”

“All he said was ‘always a pleasure to meet with you, Snow, can’t wait until the next time I make your acquaintance’,” Agatha points out.

“I thought he was going to do something to me at the World Cup!” I argue.

“And watching videos of him talking about his summer vacation plans was going to help you how exactly?” Penny says, eyebrows raised and her patented Don’t-Even-Try-To-Bullshit-Me face.

I throw my hands up. “Alright, can we get back to the matter at hand, y’all? What am I supposed to do, now?”

They look at each other, and I can’t decipher what they’re thinking. I’m closer with Penny than Agatha is, but I can never translate their Girl Code looks and lingo. “Isn’t it obvious?” Agatha asks.

“ _Clearly,_ no.” I reply, agitated. “How did you know you were pansexual?” I ask Aggie.

“I don’t know. I like kissing boys, and I like kissing girls, and I like everyone in-between. Genitalia and gender are just… not relevant to me.” Aggie shrugs. “Did you like it? Kissing Baz?”

I don’t answer, but they take the blush coloring my cheeks as a yes.

“You don’t have to label it right away.” Agatha says. “You don’t have to define what you are or what you feel just because you kissed a dude once, and maybe want to do it again.”

Do I want to do it again?

_Yes,_ my brain supplies immediately.

“Yeah, we’re here for you whatever you decide.” Penny says, nodding her head vigorously to accentuate her point.

“Thanks, guys.” I say, feeling the weight on my shoulders lift a little.

Agatha checks her silver Rolex, and says, “Oh shit! I’m almost late for my meeting.”

“Agatha, I told you to set aside an hour for this intervention!” Penny complains.

“Not my fault Simon was late to his own intervention!” Agatha huffs.

“Uh, can you be late to something you don’t know is happening?” I butt in, and they both say “yes”.

“You don’t even want this meeting,” Penny says to Agatha.

“Do I want Kylie Jenner to name a lipstick after me? No. Do I want people to know that Kylie Jenner _wants_ to name a lipstick after me? Yes.”

“You’re a brat.” Penny says, but she’s smiling.

“Don’t I know it,” Agatha says. She kisses my cheek and says, “more girl talk later!”

“I’m not a girl,” I complain.

“Whatever. If we’re gushing about hot foreign royals, I’m going to call it girl talk.”

“I don’t _gush_ about Baz,” I say.

“Suuure you don’t.” Agatha says, and it’s clear she doesn’t agree with me on this point. “Bye!”

When Agatha leaves, Penny looks at me meaningfully.

“So, then what happened?” Penny asks astutely.

“What do you mean?” I ask, playing dumb.

“Agatha may get distracted by makeup and Kardashians, but you can’t get rid of me that easily.”

“You know, Kylie’s not technically a Kardashian, she’s a Jen-”

“Spill.” Penny interrupts my attempt at derailing the conversation with a pop culture tangent.

I sigh. “He ran out after.”

“Okay, that’s fine. Gay panic is a known side affect of closeted first kisses.”

“Gay what?” I ask, feeling out of my depth.

“You really need to get on Tumblr. But we’ll talk about that later.” Penny says, correctly sensing I was about to have follow-up questions. “Just call him.”

“I did.” I say quietly.

“What did he say?”

“He didn’t answer. His phones gone straight to voicemail all week, and my text messages aren’t going through.”

Penny purses her lips. “What did you text him?”

I blush, but open the messages to show her. If I don’t tell her now, she’ll just end up stealing my phone. I open up to my messages with Royal Bitch, and read along with her, seeing the numerous texts I’ve sent him since last week.

**Royal Bitch (7:35 p.m):** Our flight just landed, we should be there in approximately an hour.

 **Me (7:42 p.m.):** cool I have the glitter vamp boy

 **Me (12:25 a.m):** where r u

 **Me (12:27 a.m):** Baz?

 **Me (12:33 a.m):**?????

 **Me (12:58 a.m):** did u seriously just leave

 **Me (12:59 a.m):** not cool

 **Me (1:07 a.m):** Fine whatever I don’t care

 **Me (1:17 a.m):** but seriously come back

 **Me (10:35 a.m):** hey i just woke up call me

 **Me (12:12 p.m):** did ur plane crash or something bro???

 **Me (2:47 p.m):** omg please tell me ur plane didn’t crash I’d feel so bad if it did

 **Me (6:12 p.m.):** Are u really ghosting me rn???

 **Me (6:38 p.m):** in the ignoring me way not the haunting me way

 **Me (8:04 a.m.):** your on the cover of people today so I guess your not dead

 **Me (12:45 p.m):** can you please turn ur fuckin phone on?

 **Me (2:06 a.m):** ur a dick

 **Me (4:45 p.m.):** the only acceptable excuse for this is if you dropped ur phone in the Atlantic Ocean which somehow I highly doubt happened

 **Me (1:35 p.m.):** Fine whatever fuck you

 **Me (10:56 a.m.):** BAZ FUCKING PITCH

 **Me (4:09 a.m.):** call me

I study Penny’s face as she scrolls through my many messages to Baz, trying to gauge her feelings about my poor texting decisions, but her face remains impassive as she scrolls through our messages.

“Is it bad? I think it might be bad.” I say, embarrassment and panic rising in me.

“Okay, well. It’s not _good_ ,” I groan, and she quickly says, “but it could have been worse. I mean, the whole thing isn’t totally fucked.”

“But- did you see the news the other day?” I ask nervously.

I was on my way to the corner bakery when I saw it. Right on the cover of Entertainment Weekly was Baz having lunch with some French socialite. He was all smiley and handsome and like Prince fucking charming, and she was pretty and blonde and definitely not me. There were three pictures: them happily eating together, them holding hands, and him kissing her on the cheek. I almost dropped my sour cherry scone as this horrible feeling rose up in me. The one that would come when the younger kids at the orphanage would get adopted. The one I didn’t want to admit felt a hell of a lot like jealousy.

I can’t deny it was a very not Straight reaction to seeing your frenemy out on date.

“Yeah,” Penny says, automatically knowing what I’m talking about. Because, of course she does. “That doesn’t, like, _mean_ anything, though.”

“Going on a date days after kissing me doesn’t mean anything?” I ask, disbelieving.

“Simon, he’s next in line to the throne. It’s fucked up, but, I mean. I don’t think he’s _allowed_ to be gay.”

“Do you think he’s gay?” I ask, hope welling up inside me. Despite the fact that I’m not sure what I want. Despite the fact that I’m not sure that I’m even gay.

Penny lets out a small laugh. “Oh, totally. I could have told you that years ago.”

“Why didn’t you?” I ask, slightly peeved that I was so blindsided by the kiss. I previously thought him being gay was outside the realm of possibility.

“Because it’s none of my business. Well, until now. Now he’s getting involved with my best friend, his business will be my business.”

“Oh, yes,” I say sarcastically. “You will have so many opportunities to be involved when we never speak again.”

“I wouldn’t be so sure about the never speaking thing.”

“He’s _ignoring me_.” I whine.

“Maybe, for now. But he’s going to have to talk to you next week at the State’s Dinner.”

I almost forgot. Next Saturday, Baz has to come to America for a state’s dinner, and we have to be photographed getting along. He’ll _have_ to talk to me then. My stomach churns in nerves and anticipation.

“Okay. Yes. Yeah. Okay. What do I say to him?” I wonder aloud.

“If all goes well, you won’t have to say anything at all.” She tries to deadpan, but ends up snorting at her own joke.

“You’re a menace to society.”

“Good, we can be menaces to society together.” She says, and reaches for the “intervention” sign.

“Did you two make that yourself?” I ask.

“Yep, took us a goddamn hour.”

“Y’all are extra.”

“Never denied that,” Penny says, and then goes to crumble up the sign, “I guess we don’t need the banner anymore, though.”

“No, wait,” I say, “keep it just in case Agatha gets it in her head that she should audition for American Idol again.”

“Good call.” Penny says. “She really can’t sing.”

“No, she really can’t.”

* * *

The days before the State’s Dinner drag by. Times flies when you’re having fun, but time stalls when you’re anxious to see your enemy turned kind of friend turned guy you kissed that one time at a photographed international event.

_Finally,_ Saturday rolls around. Agatha spends an hour deciding what outfit I should wear, and how I should do my hair. I’m dressed in a navy blue suit and a light blue undershirt Aggie says matches my eyes, and my hairs not nearly as frizzy as it is most days. I’m fidgeting in the dining room, messing with my cufflinks.

“ _Stop doing that_ ,” she chastises, “you’re going to wrinkle your outfit and you’ll look _ridiculous_ when Basilton gets here.

“I feel ridiculous,” I mumble, annoyed. “I wish Penny were here.”

“Well, she’s not.” Agatha says. “She’s celebrating her four year anniversary with Micah, so don’t be texting her all night either.”

I frown. That was exactly what I planned on doing. I’ve been spamming her phone all day.

“What?” Agatha asks, picking up on my bad mood and pouting, “I’m not good enough?”

I’m saved from answering, because that’s the moment Baz walks in.

He looks gorgeous, wearing a classic black tailored suit with a blood-red tie and a bored expression. When his eyes meet mine it’s like a jolt of lightning.

Fuck. How did I think I was 100% straight? Has he always been this good looking, or is it just more glaringly obvious now that I know what he tastes like?

Baz drops eye contact quickly, turning his head so I can’t see his face. I try to hide the disappointment on my face, but I’m not sure I do a good job of it, because when Ebb comes to get me for my photo op, she says, “Simon, dear? Are you feeling alright?”

I murmur a half-hearted agreement and walk over to where I’m supposed to take photos with Prince Baz.

He’s standing there, weight shifted on one side biting his bottom lip, typing on his phone-

His phone.

Which is not dead, or broken, or at the bottom of the Atlantic, but perfectly functional in his hands.

I have to use every bit of self restraint I have not to blacken his eye right there. Who kisses someone, runs off, and then ignores all of their calls and text messages?

A fucking prick, that’s who.

When he sees me looking at him, his eyes widen and he slips his phone in his back pocket.

“Bad cell reception?” I say, sounding falsely cheery, “I guess that would explain why you didn’t respond to me for two weeks.”

“Um…” He says, and I’m pleased to see he at least looks a little bit guilty about it.

“Smile, boys!” A photographer says, and I clasp him on the shoulder. The tension between us is palpable- but I don’t know what kind. Nervous? Antagonistic? Sexual?

He’s walking away from me, without making eye contact, before I can figure it out.

I let out an inaudible huff of frustration as I turn my face away from the cameras to hide my frown. I search for Agatha, and march over to her when I see her long blonde ponytail on the other side of the room.

“He’s a sociopath,” I say, without any pretenses, interrupting her conversation with a French diplomat.

Agatha looks surprised by my rudeness for only a moment, before turning back to her companion and saying something quickly and politely in French. Then, she grabs me by the very cufflinks she told me not ten minutes ago not to ruin, and drags me into the hallway.

“Simon, we are in public.” She chastises.

“Not anymore,” I say, motioning to the hallway.

“I do not give Penny enough credit. You’re a handful.” She mutters.

“Agatha, this is an emergency! He’ll barely look at me!” I complain.

“Okay, okay, I’ll fix it!” She says, holding her hands up in surrender. “Just sit tight through dinner, okay?”

Despite the fact that the dinner is phenomenal- filet mignon, garlic roasted potatoes, cheese bread- I can only think about the way Baz tasted last week. Like spearmint gum and vodka and rhapsody. It’s a Herculean effort not to look at him.

As soon as the table is excused, Agatha whispers “meet me in down the hall, second door to the left, in five minutes”, and pushes me towards the exit. I know better than to argue with her, so I walk away without another word.

After a couple of minutes of waiting, sitting below a portrait of Alexander Hamilton, I hear Agatha’s high pitched voice, “no, really, it’s an emergency, see, he’s really hurt, and-”. The doors burst open to show a panic-stricken Baz and Agatha. I stand to my feet immediately, their concern jolting me up. But Agatha’s worry slips from her face like it was never there, and she smiles impishly.

“Oh,” she says in a self-satisfied tone, “seems Simon’s alright after all. Guess I’ll grab some dessert, then.”

Baz turns to leave, but Agatha blocks the exit with her arm. “Ebb will be keeping watch outside to make sure that everyone in this room, stays in this room, for a minimum of 5 minutes. Security protocol.” she lies smoothly. “Later.”

As Agatha leaves, I think that maybe she should use her gap year to be an actress. Or maybe join the FBI.

Baz looks stern as he turns his gaze on me. It’s the first time we’ve been alone since our kiss, and the air is electric with unspoken words and sizzling tension. “Was this your idea? To have Wellbelove lock us in here?”

“What? No!” I protest, but he continues like he didn’t even hear me.

“To what end?” He asks, pulling at his hair a little. “Are you going to make fun of me? Hit me? Are you going to say-”

“Shut up! Shut the hell up!” I scream, and lunge at him. He flinches, like he thinks I’m actually going to deck him.

I don’t. I kiss him.

He stays tense for only a moment before responding.

I thought I knew what to expect. I really did. Because this isn’t the first time. But it feels as good as the first time- no, _better_ . My thoughts aren’t coming out as words, just colors, burning reds and blinding whites. My whole body is nothing but rainbows and euphoria and _Baz._ I just want more and more and more.

I don’t exactly know what I’m doing, but I follow my instincts. I grab him by the backs of his upper thighs and prop him on the table next to him so that we’re the same height. I grab his hair to yank his head back and he gasps in surprise. His breath catches in his throat as I bite down on his long neck, and he arches into me when I start to suck on that same spot.

I don’t know how much time has passed when there’s suddenly loud knocking at the door, and we break apart.

“Boys,” Ebb says in a neutral voice through the door. “Times up.”

We’re both breathing heavily, and Baz’s pupils are so blown his eyes look almost completely black. “I-uh-” I stutter, unsure how to proceed.

“One kiss, and you’re speechless. Use your words, Snow.”

I growl and press up against him. He’s trying to seem impassive, pretending to be cool, calm, and collected, but I can feel the bulge in his pants on my stomach, so he’s not fooling me. I thrust my hips into him, and he groans lewdly, breaking his royal composure.

“Two kisses.” I correct. “Can’t you count?”

Baz sneers, but it’s undercut by the fact that he moans a little too. I smile triumphantly.

“If you want to make it three….” I say. “Meet me in the east wing bedroom at 11.” After a pause, I add, “That’s, uh, my room.”

“I gathered,” Baz says, his voice a little strained.

“Be there, then.” I say. I look into his grey eyes, and decide to kiss him one more time. He melts into it, and I can’t believe Baz Pitch, with his hard edges and sharp tongue, has such soft lips. I pull away, and walk out the double doors back to the State’s Dinner without looking back, before I lose myself completely in him.

* * *

At 10:55 P.M., I hear a soft tapping at my door just as I’ve shoved the last of my dirty clothes in the closet. This morning, I wasn’t sure we’d get to this point- to my bedroom- I wasn’t even sure I wanted it. So I didn’t let myself think about it. Which, turns out, wasn’t the best plan I’ve ever had, since my room looked like a tornado had hit when I got back to it ten minutes ago. I didn’t want to turn off prim and proper Prince Basilton with my messiness, and as a result I’ve broken a sweat on my brow in my frantic attempts to clean up.

I yank open my bedroom door, not hiding my eagerness that he came. He actually came. “You’re early,” I say.

“Hardly,” he argues, because everything’s an argument with him.

I shut him up the only way that’s worked thus far.

He tastes like spearmint toothpaste, and it makes me smile into the kiss. My happiness makes him grin too, before he lifts me up and throws me on the couch by my bed. He looks at me for a moment before he dives back into a searing kiss. I shudder, because the way he looks at me makes me feel naked, even though I’m still fully dressed. 

His hand grazes my top button of my shirt and my heart skips a beat. He pauses, waiting for my approval, so gently and so sweetly that I almost sound reverent when I whisper _yes_. Both of our shirts are off so quickly I can’t remember what comes first or second or third, it’s all a blur of buttons and cotton and olive skin above me.

It’s all so sexy and erotic and perfect- that is, until I try to roll over onto him and land him on the floor.

“Oof!” He lets out as he thuds onto the ground.

“Oh my god,” I say into the crook of his neck, absolutely mortified, “I’m so sorry.”

He’s shaking, and I’m panicking, because I think he’s crying. But then I pull off and he’s burst into soundless laughter.

“You’re a mess,” he chokes out, and pulls me down to him by the neck.

“Am not,” I say, pulling back onto all fours above him, just to see if he’ll pull me back against him.

“You _are,”_ he snarls, and grabs me by the hair to bring me into a punishing kiss, with teeth and fire. I didn’t realize how much I wanted this until he bites my lip: at the same time I let out a positively obscene moan, I grope his crotch over his pants.

He bucks up into me hard, and I manage to choke out, “can I suck your dick?”

His eyes widen in surprise at my forwardness, and as soon as he nods in assent, my face is at his waist as I clumsily undo his button and unzip his pants. He lifts his hips so I can pull down his pants.

I decide to take this moment when I have him right where I want him to tease him.

I can see the strain of his cock on his briefs, and I let out a breath of hot air over it. He goes to buck his hips, but I hold them down with my hands. He looks down sharply at me.

“You’ve been ignoring me.” I say slowly.

“Yes.” He says, his voice strained with arousal.

“You went out with a _girl_.” I complain, but move my face closer to his dick. I hear his breath hitch.

“Just for show.” He insists, trying to push his hips on into me.

“Are you sorry?” I tease, and he growls.

“You can do better than that,” I say, and grab his dick through his briefs. He lets out a loud moan. “ _Are you sorry?_ ”

“Yes, yes, fuck, yes, Simon, please-” Baz begs. I silence him by sliding off his briefs and putting my mouth on him.

I’ve never really thought about what Baz’s penis would look like (that many times), but I’m not surprised to find he’s well-endowed. I’m sure my inexperience with men is very obvious by the sloppy way that I’m guessing my way through this. I’m licking the head of his cock while I use my hands to jerk off what I can’t fit in my mouth. My rhythm is off, but you couldn’t tell by the way Baz is moaning.

He’s clutching my curls tightly and it encourages me to go faster. It’s wetter and even more careless than before when I do, but I think he’s appreciating my enthusiasm, because he gets even more vocal.

“Oh, fuck. Oh, God. Oh, Simon, Simon, Simon.” Baz purrs, and I moan around him when he says my name and his hips jerk involuntarily. “Simon, I’m going to, I’m going to-”

I don’t stop, so he cums down my throat. I choke on it a little, but manage to swallow it nonetheless. When I look up at Baz, he’s looking at me like he’s hungry. He pulls me up by my hair and kisses me roughly, quickly, before he’s getting me naked as well. We roll over so he’s on top, and he seems eager to return the favor.

But there’s nothing clumsy or careless about the way he’s doing this. I whimper when he takes me down his throat in one go; I look down and he’s looking me dead in the eye with my cock in his mouth. I swear to god he’s managing to _smirk_ at me, even with his mouth full. Some Eton boy or shadowy royal guard must have taught him how to do this right. Then he starts massaging my balls, and I’m cumming far too soon, without giving him any warning. He doesn’t complain, though, just gives me a superior look as he comes up to lay beside me on the floor.

The full weight of what we just did hits me full force, and I push down the uncomfortable mixture of emotion and confusion, and just say the first thing that pops into my head.

“So… are you gay?” I ask.

Baz lets out a huff of laughter, but doesn’t respond.

“...is that a yes?” I press on.

“What do you think, Snow?” He sneers, staring at the ceiling. After the silence stretches on for a few moments, he turns to look at me. He must see something in my face that makes him elaborate. “Yes, I am. Are you?”

“Dunno,” I say, honestly. “I liked fooling around a lot, though.”

That’s the understatement of the century. I fucking loved that. I’ve had sex before, with women, but it’s never felt so urgent and necessary and _good_.

Baz looks at me like I’ve said something wrong, so I keep talking like my mouth isn’t what usually gets me into trouble.

“I mean, nothing has to change, we’re still whatever we were before. You know, with blowjobs,” I say as casually as I can manage. I don’t want to come on too strong and scare him away with how much I want to do this again.

“Yeah, cool,” Baz finally responds, his voice flat, “Blowjobs are pretty fair compensation for unnecessary two a.m. text messages linking me to Tupac and Biggie conspiracy videos.”

I punch him on the arm and he lets out quiet laughter that tugs at my chest violently.

“You better get back to your room,” I say quietly. “Don’t want to get caught haunting the hallways of the White House at dawn like the ghost of redcoats past.”

“You’re a fucking idiot,” he whispers harshly, though the effect is lessened by his slight but noticeable grin.

I get up and hand him his clothes and we dress quietly. When we’re standing at my door, he suddenly seems awkward, like he’s not sure what to do.

“You can kiss me goodnight, you know.” I say, not sure if this is the right thing to say. I’m not sure what the protocol for this kind of situation is. Does he kiss his other fuckbuddies goodnight? Maybe I should try to joke it off. “I mean, my dick was just in your mouth. Now’s a little too late for shyness,” I say in a jovial tone, like I don’t care whether he kisses me.

But I do care. And when we leans in and kisses me softly, it’s sweeter than I expected. I feel my heart singing, and try not to think about how much the kiss feels like a beginning. It’s over all too quickly, and after no time at all he’s shutting the door quietly behind him.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> My messy idiots are messy


	8. I’m Going To Kiss You Until You Forget How To Talk

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Baz and Simon reunite in Paris.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Hi!! Updates for this will be a little slower from now on. Law school started and WOW they are not kidding when they say it’s hard. After reading and writing for 8-10 hours a day it can be hard to come back and spend time on my creative writing, but I swear I won’t abandon this. I just gotta pace myself so I don’t burn out. 
> 
> Anyways, here’s the next chapter!!

**Baz**

**American Idiot (8:15 p.m.):** ok i finished reading the cursed child and you were right, it was trash

 **American Idiot (8:16 p.m.):** who the fuck is this dude who's calling himself Harry Potter because uhhhh #NotMyHarryPotter

 **American Idiot (8:16 p.m.):** also what the fuck was the trolley witch scene

 **American Idiot (8:16 p.m.):** ALSO THE IMAGE OF VOLDEMORT HAVING SEX WITH BELLATRIX WILL HAUNT ME UNTIL MY DYING DAY

 **American Idiot (8:16 p.m.):** this reads like a poorly written, poorly thought out fanfiction

 **American Idiot (8:16 p.m.):** can you ask JK Rowling if she can make A Very Potter Musical canon instead

 **Me (8:17 p.m.):** Yeah, let me just call her. I’ve got her on speed dial.

 **American Idiot (8:17 p.m.):** thx ur a lifesaver

I snort unattractively, causing Dev to raise an eyebrow at me. “You texting your boy?”

“I don’t know to whom you could be referring.” I say without taking my eyes off my phone screen.

**Me (8:17 p.m.):** You are truly the dumbest person I have ever had the displeasure to know.

“Oh, really?” Dev deadpans. “No idea?”

“It couldn’t be the only person you are _ever_ texting.” Niall adds, a little too heavily on the sarcasm.

**American Idiot (8:17 p.m.):** I could introduce you to Ted Cruz.

I bite my lip to keep myself from laughing out loud.

**Me (8:18 p.m.):** I will get you put on a no-fly list.

“He is acting exactly like a Year Eight girl the first time she fancies a bloke. I’m not sure whether to be charmed or disgusted.” Niall says.

“Disgusted. Definitely disgusted.” Dev responds.

**American Idiot (8:18 p.m.):** you wouldn’t

 **American Idiot (8:18 p.m.):** because then you couldn’t hang out with me in Paris this weekend

“It’s almost like he can’t hear us, he’s so absorbed by his phone.” Dev adds.

**Me (8:19 p.m.):** I think that’s a sacrifice I can live with.

“There’s no love like the first.” Niall says, with an over dramatic sigh.

“Is that a Nicholas Sparks quote?” Dev asks.

“Shut up.”

**American Idiot (8:19 p.m.):** gunna suck yourself off then?

I can’t hold back my amusement this time. A loud laugh bubbles up in my chest and bursts out. Though, it’s promptly cut off when Dev yanks my phone out of my hands.

“Hey!” I protest, reaching for my stolen phone, but Niall holds me back.

“Yeah, I was right. He’s texting Simon.” Dev confirms.

Niall turns his head to Dev to say, “ _obviously”,_ and I use his momentary distraction from restraining me to snatch my phone back from Dev.

“You wankers are insufferable,” I say bitingly, though the effect may be diminished due to the self-conscious blush coloring my cheeks.

“So, I’m guessing he’s the reason you insisted on being sent to that UN Conference in Paris?” Dev asks.

“Diplomacy is an essential part of politics. It is important to keep up positive international relations.” I say, carefully neutral.

“Sure. Okay. And that’s what you’re doing with America, keeping up positive relations?” Dev says with one eyebrow raised and a highly suggestive tone.

“Shut up.” I respond, trying to seem dignified and superior. Though, my lack of a snarky comeback is a sure sign of my embarrassment.

“Don’t be embarrassed! We’re proud of you! Your first boyfriend-” Niall starts, but I interrupt him.

“He is not my boyfriend.” I rapidly correct.

Whatever this is, it can’t be that.

The moment I walked away from him on Halloween, all I could think was, _fuckfuckfuck._ I blocked Simon’s phone number immediately, not feeling strong enough to see whatever he texted me- whether it was a polite rejection or scathing slurs, I thought, it would have been too much. I almost regret that, now. I want to know what he texted me and how often. When I asked Simon to send me a screenshot, he responded, in rapid succession, _I deleted them_ and _no one will ever see them_ and _I will talk to the FBI if I have to_ and _hacking the first son’s messages is an act of war._

If I wasn’t wildly curious before, I was then. I can’t pretend I wasn’t still tempted to get someone in MI6 to hack into his phone records. But I thought that risking a Third World War to know what the boy I fancy thought of our first kiss was a little dramatic, even for me.

The two weeks after Halloween were excruciating. I was torn between wanting to know exactly what he was thinking about that kiss and wanting to somehow find a way to remove the memory from his brain.

My thoughts pretty much consisted of: _I have made a grave mistake_ . _He’s not gay. Even if he was, he wouldn’t be into me. Even if he was, he wouldn’t make a move. Even if he did, he’d never love me_.

The knowledge was both heart-crushing and relieving.

I’m the fucking heir to the British throne. I can’t have a boyfriend. Especially not a stuttering, impulsive, headstrong, gorgeous disaster of a First Son of America boyfriend. But that was okay, because there’s no universe where he wants me.

But then he kissed me _again_.

And it was just as good as the first time- no, better It wasn’t fireworks; it was lightning storms and meteor showers and volcanic eruptions. The most beautiful natural disaster the earth has ever seen.

Fuck, maybe Dev and Niall are on to something. I _do_ sound like a smitten teenage girl.

It’s not like we’re really _together_ . It’s not like he loves me or even fancies me. I don’t think Simon Snow’s ever thought through a decision in his life; I doubt he’s put much thought to me. He doesn’t even know if he’s _gay_. But he likes this. He doesn’t want to stop.

So, I’ll take what I can get. Until he inevitably wants to stop.

“Do you take all your not-boyfriend’s on dates in the city of love?” Niall asks, breaking me out of my racing thoughts.

“I went there with Keris once,” I say, trying to change the subject. “It was lovely. We saw the Eiffel Tower at sunset, and then went to Le Jules Verne. Then we got wasted in the hotel room and watched Wedding Crashers.”

“We’re not talking about dates with your beard.” Dev says.

“Hey. We were each other’s beards. It was a mutually beneficial relationship.” I say, defensively. Keris was great fake girlfriend in secondary school. She didn’t mind all the public photographed dates and non-disclosure-agreements and royal nonsense; she was used to it, since her father is the King of Belgium’s Chief of Cabinet. It took the pressure off both of us, since both of our fathers suspected our sexuality and quietly disapproved. But Keris moved out and officially came out after we graduated, so the need for staged photo ops disappeared on her end. “She rang me last week to tell me about her new girlfriend, Trixie. She’s some punk rocker with pink hair, and she’s the lead singer of her band. And guess what the band’s called?”

“Baz, you’re deflecting-”

“Trixie and the Pixies,” I continue on like Niall hadn’t spoken. “Isn’t that charming? Well, not _charming_ exactly. It’s pretty kitsch. But, for a band name, it’s a decent idea. Even though it is a bit too on the nose, it’s pretty catchy, and they aren’t half bad, and-”

“Okay, okay!” Niall concedes. “No need to filibuster us. We’ll change the topic.”

“Splendid,” I say, pleased. “Let’s get on with cricket.”

Niall and Dev share an incredulous look. “Mate, you were the one delaying the game. It’s your turn!” Niall says.

“Oh,” I say. “Yeah, of course.”

I Iine up the darts in my vision, and manage to hit triple 20 and two bullseyes. I smirk at them as they groan. “I always forget how good you are at these games,” Dev complains.

“You mean at every game?” I boast. “It’s not that hard to remember that if you’re playing me, you’re going to lose.”

Dev rolls his eyes and goes to take his shots. He narrowly misses his target every time, and he curses under his breath.

I pull out my phone one last time for the night to text Simon back.

**Me (8:34 p.m.):** I guess I’ll allow you to enter Europe one last time.

 **Me (8:35 p.m.):** Further entry will be determined upon your behavior this weekend.

 **American Idiot (8:36 p.m.):** and what? if I’m bad you’ll spank me?

 **Me (8:37 p.m.):** You are a disgrace to your nation.

* * *

It’s a lot easier to be confident over text than in person. Over text, I can hide all my blushing and smiles and affection. It’s very low pressure.

But now, a half hour until Simon gets to Paris, with the butterflies in my stomach fluttering violently, I’m a self-conscious wreck.

As I sip my third iced coffee, I scroll through our last messages for what feels like the hundredth time today.

**American Idiot (1:19 a.m.):** can we go to the Louvre this weekend

 **Me (1:34 a.m):** Who are you and what have you done with Simon Snow?

 **American Idiot (1:37 a.m.):** Shut up I could have an interest in art history

 **American Idiot (1:37 a.m.):** I am complex and deep Basilton

 **Me (1:39 a.m.):** Of course, Snow. My apologies.

 **American Idiot (1:40 a.m.):** thank you

 **American Idiot (1:41 a.m.):** though honestly it’s for extra credit in my intro to art history class

 **American Idiot (1:41 a.m.):** Truth be told I am not doing so hot

 **American Idiot (1:41 a.m.):** I hate art history it’s stupid and pointless

 **Me (1:43 a.m.):** I am so surprised.

 **Me (1:44 a.m.):** Americans are so uncultured.

 **American Idiot (1:45 a.m.):** fuck off asshole

 **American Idiot (1:46 a.m.):** So is that a yes??

 **Me (1:46 a.m.):** Well, I suppose. Since you asked so nicely.

**American Idiot (1:47 a.m.): ❤️☺️😍😜❤️**

**American Idiot (1:47 a.m.):** thx Bazzy!!!!

 **Me (1:48 a.m.):** Never call me that again.

 **Me (1:48 a.m.):** Also, it’s late here, so I'm going to bed. Goodnight, Snow.

 **American Idiot (1:49 a.m.):** cool cool cool

 **American Idiot (1:49 a.m.):** phones dying anyways n I gotta get some sleep on this red eye too

 **American Idiot (1:49 a.m.):** see u in 10 hours

 **American Idiot (1:48 a.m.):** doNT FORGET RHE MACAROONS BAZZY

I smile despite myself, glancing over at the dozens of macaroons I bought from Le Macaron Ladurèe Paris this morning. The gesture would be decidedly romantic if he hadn’t threatened me to get them for him before the conference, “or else”. As tempted as I am to witness a Simon Snow tantrum in this private airstrip, I’d rather make him flash me his crooked smile. Plus, he gets so shameless when he's hungry, and I secretly like watching him devour the desserts in that impolitely messy way of his.

I’m tapping my foot impatiently when I finally see a private jet with red and blue stripes. Time drags as I watch the plane land, but I finally see a mess of bronze hair come out the door, and I smile a little, until I see two women, one brunette and one blond, follow Simon down the ramp stairs.

“Hi Basilton!” Penelope Bunce says enthusiastically as she approaches me, her arm intertwined in Agatha’s in a friendly gesture. She and Agatha are both grinning mischievously, and my stomach churns with nerves.

“Hello, Miss Bunce. Miss Wellbelove. What a surprise.” I respond politely, hiding my confusion. I glance at Simon, who's smiling sheepishly with his hands in the front pocket of the Dallas Cowboys hoodie he's got on over his clothes.

“Uh, Penny is interested in politics, and she wanted to come,” Simon says awkwardly. “She and Aggie were waiting for me in the plane this morning.”

“I’m majoring in Political Science at Georgetown,” Bunce confirms. “I think I might concentrate in International Politics.”

“I just came here to spy on you two,” Agatha says shamelessly. “Though, Simon says I would be good in the FBI, so let’s call this an academic endeavor.”

“I also said you’d be good at being a hitman, but I don’t think you should _actually_ do that,” Simon says to Agatha, looking embarrassed and frustrated.

“Well, maybe I _will_ do that, too. You know, if Basilton here hurts you.” Agatha replies, smiling. All the blood in my body rushes to my cheeks at her words.

“Well,” Penelope says, breaking the awkward silence that Agatha's words brought, “we should get going now.”

“Are those macaroons? Did you bring them for Simon? Oh, we love those!” Agatha asks me, either oblivious or indifferent to the group’s discomfort with her bluntness, and takes the container out of my hand without waiting for me to offer her any.

“Hands off, Aggie,” Simon says, glaring daggers at an unruffled Agatha, “you’re being so rude right now.”

Agatha smile doesn't falter as we make our way to the SUV, where Possibelf is waiting for us. I sit in the front with Possibelf, who looks professionally unfazed by the extra two guests, to avoid eye contact with everyone. I turn up the music so I don’t have to talk, and try to pretend the three of them aren’t here so I can calm my anxiety.Though, I can’t resist stealing a few glances at Simon in the rear view mirror, and I’m somewhat placated by the fact that he looks as uncomfortable as I feel right now.

When we get to the conference, we step out of the car to a sea of reporters and cameramen and civilians alike. Father leaked that I’d be attending the conference. He said it would look good to the press that I was interested in our political duties. He added “You need to appear more serious. It doesn’t look great that you chose to study such a soft subject as English,” in a disapproving tone. I nodded and stayed quiet, though the only person who has ever even hinted that my choice of major is disagreeable is him.

The crowd seems thrilled to see us. After a parade of middle aged white men, I'm sure they're eager to get photographs that will sell- the Prince of England and the White House Trio is much more of a people-pleaser. I plaster on my public smile. It’s easy to fake it, even now when I’m so on edge. Years of practice, I guess.

Agatha has that same easiness to her smile; though hers doesn’t look practiced. I think it’s just the effect of being a completely unbothered person; cheeriness must just come naturally to people like her. Penelope isn’t half as smiley, but she seems just as comfortable and confident in her skin.

Simon, though. Well- he seems like a bit of a wreck right now. It's equal parts endearing and difficult to watch. He's- thank God- taken off his American football jacket to reveal that he is in appropriate, though slightly wrinkled clothing. He's wearing black suit and black undershirt with a colorfully patterned tie. He doesn't seem very comfortable in it, and he keeps playing with his cufflinks and the neck of his tie. I suspect one of the girls- probably Agatha- dressed him. He’s giving uneasy smiles to the crowd with his hands in his pockets, looking decidedly out of place.

Despite the fact that I'm cross with him for letting Agatha and Penelope tag along, I try to reassure him. "Snow," I whisper low so only he can hear me. I'm very aware that this is the first time I've spoken directly to him since fifteen days ago in his bedroom. "Calm down. You're walking into a U.N. building, not to your execution."

"Same difference," he replies, and it shocks a genuine laugh out of me.

"Touche," I admit, and his smile goes from poorly staged to charmingly sincere. I can hear the rapid clicks that tells me that this moment is being photographed, but for once, I don't care what I'll look like on the Daily Mail tomorrow. There's nothing false about my own smile now.

As we enter the conference, Simon stands closer than is necessary to me, and lightly brushes his pointer and middle finger against my wrist as we walk over the threshold. I spend the entire conference going between planning what to say to him afterwards and thinking about that moment. I couldn't tell you what a single speech made was about.

When the final speaker has finished, before the applause has even ended, Penelope turns to me and says, “where to?”

“What?” I ask, taken aback.

“Where are we going to dinner? I think we go authentic French. I want to avoid tourist traps. I’ve always wanted to try Pavillon Ledoyen.” Penelope says, saying the restaurant name in a perfect French accent.

“Don’t you need a reservation to go there?” Agatha asks.

“I bet you don’t, if you’re the prince of England,” Penelope says raising her eyebrows at me.

I want to say no. I really do. I hate pulling the prince card; it makes me feel like a prat. Plus, I’m mad at Simon for bringing them and for obviously telling them about us. But then I glance at him, and he’s looking at me with a hopeful expression, and then I find myself saying, “sure, I’ll have Ms. Possibelf make the call.”

So, because of my weakness for Simon Snow, I find myself at a five star restaurant with the White House Trio.

Penelope was more than right about not needing a reservation; the chef came out personally to greet us as soon as we sat down. He didn’t even seem put off by the fact that I was with three Americans, and the French, on principle, do not like Americans. Though, maybe he almost couldn’t tell; Penelope and Agatha are impressively fluent in French, and Simon hasn’t spoken a word since we got here.

Until we open our menus, which is written in French, and Simon says, “uh, which one of these is pizza?”

I hide my smile with my menu, and Agatha sends him an incredulous look. “ _Simon_ ,” she says meaningfully.

“What?” He asks, clueless as ever. “I thought this was authentic French.”

“Pizza is _Italian._ ”

“Uh… yeah… but don’t they have the same,” he waves his hand in an all encompassing gesture, “like… food groups? Like, isn't Italy and France like… kind of the same?”

I laugh loudly, startling the girls at the table. “Americans,” I say between my chuckles.

“Hey,” Agatha says, “not _all_ Americans. That was a distinctly Simon thing to say.”

Simon frowns at her. “You used to think Thanksgiving was a global holiday.”

Agatha’s cheeks dust with pink. “When I was _fifteen._ Last month during family trivia night, you said you thought Benjamin Franklin was our third president.”

“ _Who is James Monroe?_ No honestly. Who is he?Tell me one thing about him. You can’t-”

“He’s famous for the _Monroe Doctrine_ , it was a crucial turning point in foreign poli-”

“You tried to microwave a _metal_ bowl! You nearly burnt the White House down!”

“You almost did too when you tried to cook ramen without water!”

“They’re like this a lot,” Penelope says in a low voice. I turn and she’s looking at me very intensely over her unfashionable purple glasses. “You’d think _they_ were the siblings sometimes.”

I’m not sure what to say to that, so I say nothing. Penelope keeps eyeing me as Agatha and Simon continue to argue about who lacks the most common sense, ignoring the two of us completely.

“You know,” Penelope says, “I wasn’t super sold on you. I thought you might be a bit full of yourself.”

“Pardon me?” I ask, not expecting that whatsoever. People don’t usually insult me to my face. With the exception of Snow, of course.

“Yeah. The whole storybook Prince thing can be a little hard to swallow sometimes.”

Well, she’s not the only of Simon’s friends who’s uncomfortably blunt. I don’t know how the three of them survive the press without constant scandal. If they spoke as freely to the media as they do to me, their combined lack of tack could feed the news cycle 24 hours a day.

“I was wrong, though. I don't want to admit it, and I don’t admit that I am often, but I was totally wrong. I’m glad you and Simon are getting along. I think you could be really good for him.”

I’m not sure exactly what her meaning is. I take a long sip of my wine instead of answering.

“I think we’re going to be friends, Basil.” She says. “You know, I thought about studying English for a while. I still might minor in it. Who's your favorite Brontë sister?”

“Emily,” I respond, relieved to be on a more neutral subject than feelings.

“Really?” She asks, “why?”

“Wuthering Heights is a masterpiece.” I insist.

“Not as much as Anne’s Agnes Grey was.”

That’s how I get into a heated debate with the First Daughter of the United States over whether Wuthering Heights or Agnes Grey is a better novel.

“ _Most revolutionary_ does not equal _best_ ,” Penelope insists. “Anne’s writing was on par with Jane Austen’s.”

“ _Please,_ no one is on par with Jane Austen. And Emily’s writing is just as good, but it’s also _compelling_.”

“It’s _depressing_ and _horrifying.”_

“It is _not._ Okay, well, maybe a little. It’s dark, but not without purpose. Like Bret Easton Ellis’s writing.”

“Oh my gosh, you like Bret Easton Ellis. You’ve read Less Than Zero, right? That book is so-”

“Oh my god,” Agatha interrupts, and I just now realize Simon and Agatha had been listening to our conversation.“I did not know there was someone else that could nerd out on Penny’s level.”

“Excuse me,” I say, emboldened by the wine and the excitement of a literary conversation, “how is appreciating good novels the same as nerding out?”

“Liking books to that degree is nerdy. Admit it, Baz, you’re a nerd.” Simon says with a smile.

“Am _not_.”

“You so are. You use perfect grammar and punctuation in your text messages. You once spent an hour texting me your Star Wars Episode Nine theories. You color code your sock drawer.”

“I stand by the fact that it’s not a weird thing to do.”

By the time our meals came, we were all laughing. I almost forgot I didn’t want the two of them here.

* * *

When we get back to the hotel, I’m feeling quite buzzed from all the laughter and wine. Agatha and Penelope get off the elevator before us, and suddenly Simon and I are alone together. It’s quiet except for the cheerful _ding!_ that sounds every time we go up a floor. Every time I hear the noise, my heart rate speeds up.

When we get to our floor, I walk briskly to my room. I’m pulling out my key card when I realize Simon’s followed me.

I raise an eyebrow at him. “Can I help you?”

“Uh- well, I, um-” Simon stammers, and I realize I’m not the only one who's more bold over text. “I thought, maybe… uh. You’d wanna?”

“I’d wanna what?” I ask, because I’m an arse.

He turns beet red. “Should we, uh, talk?”

I sigh like I wasn’t hoping he’d ask, and say, “fine”, and unlock the door.

I unbutton my suit jacket and hang it up in the closet, as Snow seems to struggle to figure out where to sit. He’s eyeing the bed, and when I sit on it, he gingerly joins me.

“So, you’re mad at me.” He says, biting his lip.

“Well deduced, Snow.”

Simon frowns. “I didn’t invite them. I didn’t know they were coming until I got on the plane five minutes before takeoff and they were sitting there.”

“But you told them… what we did.” I say, unsure how to define a text flirtation and a couple blowjobs. “And that’s why they thought it appropriate to come.”

“Was I supposed to keep it a secret?” He asks, and I gape at him.

“Were you supposed to keep my _sexuality_ , which I keep hidden because I am _the heir to a country_ , a secret? Gee, Snow, I don’t know. What do you think?” I say bitterly.

“Well, did you tell your friends?”

“I…” I start. “That’s not the point.”

Snow crosses his arms stubbornly. “I feel like that is the point. Why can you tell your friends but I can’t tell mine?”

“Because you signed an NDA saying you wouldn’t go around telling everyone my private business!” I say, though it’s not at all what I mean. The wine, which was so pleasant fifteen minutes ago, is now making me feel lightheaded.

What I _mean_ , really, is that I just don’t get _why_ he’d tell his friends about me. I don’t get why Agatha is worried about me hurting him, or why Penelope thinks I’ll be good for him. Or what’s happening right now. Or what he wants.

“Is that why you made me sign an NDA? You thought I’d out you?” He asks, looking a little disgusted with me. “The only person I was trying to ‘out’ was myself. Sorry for talking to _someone_ after you ghosted me for two fucking weeks!”

“I thought you didn’t know if you were gay?” I ask, focusing in on the outing himself comment. I really don’t know why he’s doing this. I’m sure he can get some action much easier than this. I mean, choosing a male, inexperienced foreign prince as your fuckbuddy isn’t exactly the path of least resistance.

Snow throws his hands up. “Well considering I had sex with you, I’m not exactly straight, am I?”

“Well then, what are you?” I ask, my curiosity coming out unintentionally as harshness.

Snow narrows his eyes at me. “I don’t know. But I don’t have to know that to know that I want you.”

The admission sends a rush of pleasure through me. I don’t know what words I can speak that can possibly follow that. I’m afraid that whatever I say next will come out as unbearably sappy or defensively cruel, so I kiss him so we don’t have to talk anymore.

He tastes like white wine and crème brûlée and Simon Snow. I feel like I’ve gone fifteen days without water, and the moment we kiss is like finding the oasis in the desert. I think this is his preferred method of speech, too, because he’s kissing me roughly, like he’s taking his frustration with me out with his lips and tongue and teeth. When he crawls into my lap, I stop worrying and thinking altogether and just feel.

He grinds into me and I groan loudly. He bites my lip and rolls his hips even harder, and I moan his name despite myself. He smiles wickedly and puts his lips by my ear to whisper, “I like you like this. Under my thumb”.

Time speeds up in lustful flashes. I clutch at his curls to pull his head back so I can bite at his neck. I feel him shiver and push his hips down into me harder. I mark him with love bites at his collarbone. He pulls my lips back to his and shoves his tongue in my mouth. I suck on his bottom lip and his nails claw at my back. I lift him by his arse to put him on the bed and to get on top of him.

I pull his shirt over his head so I can see the constellation of moles, and that’s when time slows down again. I treat every one of his moles like a target: I kiss every single one, and by the time I’m at his belly button, he’s whining and shaking in anticipation.

I see what he means. I like him under my thumb, too.

“ _Baz,_ ” Simon murmurs, half complaint, half plea.

I laugh against his skin before pulling down his trousers. I blush at the precum staining his pants and how hard he is under me, before I slowly lick him from base to tip. He moans obscenely, clutching his curls with both hands. I stroke him slowly, very slowly, and he lets out a groan of frustration and tries to buck his hips to get more friction.

“ _Baz,”_ he says, almost angry. I smile angelically.

“What?” I ask as I run my thumb over his slit.

“ _Please_ ,” he begs.

“Please, what?” I ask, and put just the head of his cock in my mouth.

“ _Basilton,_ ” He says in a broken voice, and I love the sound of my full name in his mouth. My trousers are straining with how badly I want him. I moan around him, and he lets out a chorus of “ _please please please please please-”_

I decide to have mercy on him, and start to suck him off in earnest. It doesn’t take long until he’s cumming hard, tugging my hair and moaning my name.

His pupils are blown wide and he’s panting hard when he grabs both sides of my face to pull me up to him. My hard-on brushes against his lower abdomen as he does, and I groan at the simulation. “Better take care of that if I want to come back into Europe,” he murmurs as he sticks his hand down my pants, wrapping his fingers around me.

“Simon,” I moan, and he flips me over. He unzips my zipper and takes off my trousers in record speed.

“I like it when you say my name,” He says before deepthroating my cock.

The only thing that comes out of my mouth after that is Simon’s name between moans. When I come, I see stars.

Simon wipes his mouth with the back of his hand before coming to kiss me on the mouth. It’s lazy and slow and exploratory, and I didn’t think I’d like it so much; kissing for the sake of kissing. We’re all orgasmed out, but he’s still snogging me. I want to ask why, but I don’t want to ruin this moment. It feels so perfect and dreamlike that I’m not convinced I’m not hallucinating.

After a long time or no time at all- I couldn’t tell you- he pulls back, placing one last kiss on my cheek before rolling over next to me on the bed.

“So,” He says, “are you still mad at me?”

I roll my eyes.

“I’ll take that as a no. So you’ll go with me to the Louvre tomorrow? I promise we can ditch Pen and Aggie.”

I sigh like this is some kind of sacrifice. Like I’m not thrilled that he wants to spend time with me outside of whatever this is, outside of the collision of lips and tongues and bodies. “Fine, Snow. If you insist.”

I think he’s going to get up and go to his room, but instead, he just hums contentedly at my agreement to go to the museum with him before closing his eyes. His eyelashes are surprisingly dark considering his light hair, and I can see them fluttering as he begins to drift off to sleep. His lips are pink and swollen from kissing, and it takes quite a bit of willpower not to keep kissing him. He’s so breathtaking right now, that I feel it like a physical ache in my heart. I feel like I’m looking directly as the sun- and I’m not sure if I’m mesmerized or blinded.

I’m glad his eyes are closed, because I’m sure I look like a lovestruck fool right now.

I don’t have the heart to pretend I want him to leave. So I shut off the lights and close my eyes to sleep too, my heart filling when I feel him reach for me in the darkness. I drift off to sleep, and dream of Simon Snow.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Me? Using sex as a slow burn plot device to prolong a feelings talk? It’s more likely than you think!


	9. Two Parenthesis Enclosing 3700 Miles

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Over the months, Simon and Baz get closer.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> a bitch doesn't want to do Contract Law reading right now so here we are
> 
> TW: death, mentions of mental illness and child abuse
> 
> And this is the video I’m talking about in the beginning, it is objectively hilarious if you wanna check it out: https://m.youtube.com/watch?v=Ox07ZgZV3YI

**Simon**

**Group Message: Three Geniuses and Simon**

**Me (12:29 p.m.):** [video of Snoop Dog narrating Planet Earth]

 **Me (12:29 p.m.):** tag yourself I'm the part where Snoop says "we dem bois"!

 **IRL Cher Horowitz (12:34 p.m.):** you have such a weird sense of humor 

**The Brains of the Operation (12:38 p.m.):** back up fool we deep

 **IRL Cher Horowitz (12:40 p.m.):** Penelope Bunce, I cannot believe you are entertaining this right now

 **Me (12:42 p.m.):** should I make a YouTube channel where I watch nature documentaries and comment on them??

 **IRL Cher Horowitz (12:43 p.m.):** i will publicly disavow you.

 **Royal Bitch (12:45 p.m.):** what is these animals

 **IRL Cher Horowitz (12:47 p.m.):** omg u heathens broke him

 **Royal Bitch (12:49 p.m.):** Bold of you not to consider yourself a heathen.

I let out a laugh, startling the girl in front of me at Starbucks. Ebb looks over to me with a curious glint in her eye, and I can tell she's wondering if I'm texting Baz. She hasn't explicitly mentioned my affair with the Prince, but I can tell she knows about it. I mean, I'm subtle as I can manage to be about it, but it's got to be a bit obvious to someone who's in charge of my schedule that our paths do not need to be crossing as often as they are. Since Paris, we've been able to find a reason to see one another every two or three weeks. Social media absolutely loves it. I'm guilty of Googling myself when I'm procrastinating school work, and our 'friendship' is well-documented and popular online. I see the hashtag #BestFriendGoals quite a bit when I type our names into Twitter. Though, I feel like best friends don't have as much sex as we do. 

The sex. I'm still not sure what to make of it. I mean, obviously I like it. I _really_ like it. It's not like any of the fumbled, awkward experiences I've had in the past. I've never felt this much _want_ before. I guess I've just never been with someone so gorgeous before, someone who knows exactly what they're doing. I don't know what it is precisely, I try not to think about it too much.

Anyways, I'd say we've far exceeded what was asked of us when our families told us to play nice. 

I never knew Baz Pitch _could_ play nice, but he can, sometimes. He's still shitty to me, sometimes, but in a funny way. That's just him, and it's not infuriating anymore- it's charming. Everything about him is charming: the way he insists he has to have a handful of jelly beans a day, the way he bites his nails when he's nervous, the way he says my first name when he cums...

I'm still daydreaming about Baz when they call my order, so Ebb has to shake my shoulder to get my attention. I go to grab my drink, smiling privately to myself.

**Me (1:02 p.m.):** [picture of Starbucks drink]

 **Me (1:02 p.m.):** jealous Pitch?

 **Royal Bitch (1:04 p.m.):** Did you really just order a Pumpkin Mocha Breve because I told you I was craving it?

 **Royal Bitch (1:05 p.m.):** You know I'm trying to quit drinking caffeine after 5:00 p.m., Snow.

 **Me (1:06 p.m.):** ;-))))

 **Royal Bitch (1:07 p.m.):** You are a plague on this Earth, and I hate your stupid face.

I laugh, unbothered. I'm fairly certain at this point that he communicates his affection exclusively through insults. That morning in Paris, when he let me sleep in his room, I woke to a mouthful of his hair and the feel of his hip bone in my hand. When I tried to tease him about him sleeping in my arms, he responded "very fitfully, you numpty". But it brought a delicious flush to his cheeks, so I just kept messing with him about being a little spoon. He says he doesn't like it, but he never kicks me out if I try to stay. Anyways, if his tongue gets too sharp, I just put it to other uses, now. He never seems to object to that.

"You seem happy, Simon," Ebb says, as we're walking back to the car. She's got an easy smile on her face, and it's obvious she sees right through me, so I know I don't have to elaborate past: "I am."

**Me (1:09 p.m.):** Thanks!!!! I'm desperately attracted to you too

 **Royal Bitch (1:10 p.m.):** That is not what I said.

 **Me (1:10 p.m.):** It's what you meant ;)

* * *

**Me (7:47 p.m.):** hot take

 **Me (7:47 p.m.):** most of the Greek mythology stories wouldn't exist if Zeus wasn't such a slut

 **Royal Bitch (7:54 p.m.):** I've waited this entire friendship for Greek mythology to come up.

 **Royal Bitch (7:54 p.m.):** And that is not a hot take that is the only take

 **Royal Bitch (7:55 p.m.):** I feel as if he married the goddess of marriage just to test her 

**Royal Bitch (7:55 p.m.):** He asked himself, how much adultery does it take to break a woman?

 **Me (7:57 p.m.):** how many places can I stick my thunder cock before Hera blows up the world?

 **Royal Bitch (7:59 p.m.):** He is the god of justice and the ruler of Olympus, yet he thinks his own actions should have no consequences.

 **Royal Bitch (7:59 p.m.):** Unless he considers Hera's punishments to his lovers his punishment

 **Royal Bitch (8:00 p.m.):** Which... no

 **Royal Bitch (8:00 p.m.):** fuck Zeus

 **Me (8:00 p.m.):** You arent even using proper grammer anymore 

**Me (8:01 p.m.):** Maybe Agatha was right last week. We have broken u

 **Royal Bitch (8:02 p.m.):** It's *aren't and *grammar.

 **Me (8:03 p.m.):** there he is ;)

 **Royal Bitch (8:03 p.m.):** You're a plebian.

 **Me (8:04 p.m.):** Baz how many times have I told you to stop sending me insults I have to Google

 **Me (8:04 p.m.):** i mean its very fitting with your personal brand but I don't have the time for it

* * *

“Why does your voice sound weird?” I ask after Baz greets me on FaceTime.

“My voice does not sound weird,” he protests indignantly, but his voice cracks halfway through.

“Yes it does. What’s up? Are you getting sick?” I ask, worried. "I told you we should have gone back to the hotel for your gloves when you forgot them in the hotel in New York last week, Baz."

"Nothing is up.You are being unnecessarily fussy. I'm fine," he replies, but his voice still sounds raw and his eyes look red.

"Darling," I say, trying to drawl my voice the way Baz does. 'Darling' is something I discovered last month at a polo charity match. Baz looked so fucking sexy in his white breeches and knee high leather boots with his polo stick that the moment he was done with the game we locked ourselves in the stables for a quickie. I called him 'darling' in there when he got to his knees and his olive skin flushed a bright red and he got so enthusiastic that I barely lasted another minute after that. Now, 'darling' is my secret weapon against him; I know he loves it, even if he'd never admit it to me. 

“Okay. You can’t tell anyone,” he says, in an exasperated voice, closing his eyes.

“Okay, you know I wouldn't," I promise. Though I don't know what he's going to say, I know I wouldn’t. 

“I’m serious. No one. Not a soul.” He says solemnly, narrowing his eyes.

“You’re really playing this up. It's making me really curious. I mean, you're really going to have to tell me now," I say, though I know Baz has a pretty strong flair for the dramatic, so I'm sure he's just going to say he can't stomach the taste of cough syrup or something.

"I'm serious, Snow, if you so much as-"

"Spill, Baz.” I interrupt, able to fill in the implied insults myself by now.

“I may be…” He pauses theatrically. “Watching Queer Eye.”

“Wait." I say, sitting up in surprise. "Were you just crying right now?”

"I may...have teared up a little." Baz says, not looking at the camera.

I can't help it; I burst out laughing. This is better than I thought. Him liking romantic comedies is one thing; but Baz getting teary-eyed over the Fab Five is so far from the steely exterior he pretends to have that it's straight up hysterical.

"Hey!" he says petulantly, yelling over my chuckles. "You said you wouldn't laugh!"

"No, I said I wouldn't _tell_. Which I won’t, but." I laugh again. "Seriously, Baz? You watch Queer Eye and cry?"

Baz huffs indignantly. "Listen, okay. _Listen._ I know that, on its face, it's just a makeover show. And it's done in the American South, which, ew." He says, puts on a fake American accent when he says 'ew'. "But it's so much _more_ than that, really. They really make a difference in the lives of the people they visit. The five of them are just so _themselves,_ and they make the people on the show so _themselves,_ and it's really amazing. I just watched the one where Jonathan visits his secondary school art teacher, and he tells her how she created such a safe space for him, and then he gest rid of her god-awful 80s haircut for the- what is it called? Homecoming? Anyways, it was really emotional, okay. Anyone would have-

"Baz. Baz. Wait." I interrupt his passionate rant, remembering what he stopped Fiona from saying that first weekend I spent with him in London. "Is Queer Eye your favorite T.V. show?" 

"...maybe." He replies after a beat.

"That is the cutest thing I've ever heard."

"Snow-"

"No, seriously. That is precious, Bazzy."

" _How_ many times have I asked you not to call me-"

"Is it because you have a crush on one of them? Which one?" I ask before I can stop myself, my morbid curiosity getting the better of me. “Is it Tan? Mine’s Tan. He’s the sexiest. Ten out of ten would bang.”

I expect Baz to jump in with commentary on how of course I find the British, snarky one attractive. But instead, he says, in a cold voice,“Well, he’s married. But I’m sure he’d make an exception for the First Son of America.”

I’m taken aback by his harsh tone. “What?” I ask dumbly.

“I mean,” Baz starts, talking faster than usual, with a sudden sharp edge. His brows are furrowed as he says, “if you wanted to sleep with him, I’m sure he has a- what do you Americans call it? that thing where you can sleep with certain celebrities?- hall pass reserved for you. I’m sure you could get his phone number in a heartbeat.”

_"_ What the fuck? What are you-” I start to say, but I cut myself off when it clicks for me.

I think… he’s jealous. 

"Hey, hey." I say, panic rising in my chest at the thought that I’ve somehow totally screwed this up. “Um, so, I know we’ve never, like… talked about this, but I’m not… sleeping with anyone else. And like, I wasn't planning to.” 

I mean that I haven’t even thought about anyone else like that since Halloween, maybe even earlier, but I don’t want to seem overly obsessed, so I don’t say it like that. 

A silence spreads out between us, and it’s probably only lasted a few seconds but it feels like hours. I start to worry that I’ve misunderstood what he was saying completely and I’ve made things irreparably awkward. I’m about to start blustering my way through an apology for being too presumptuous or try to joke my way out of this cringey situation or say something else as equally dumb when Baz finally speaks up.

“Oh,” He says in a slightly softened voice, the tension in his jaw evaporating. “I mean, whatever. Cool. I haven’t either.”

I’m surprised by this. “Really?” 

“Yes, really.”

“Oh. Well. Yeah. Cool.”

“Cool.”

There’s another pause. 

“So… what’s your opinion on the French tuck?” I say, trying to bring a lightness back into the conversation.

It works: Baz laughs, and the tension in my chest eases. We talk for another hour, before Baz is yawning too much to carry on. I wish him goodnight, and the FaceTime disconnects.

In the quiet of my bedroom, I feel a little dumbstruck about the conversation. I mean, the part where Baz got jealous over me, that is.

I mean, it makes sense. I doubt royal children have to share their toys.

But… I am surprised he hasn’t been with anyone else since Halloween, either. Does that mean something?

Penny calls me down for dinner, and I wipe the thoughts from my head. I shelve this as a problem for later. Though, I already know, if I can help it, I’m not going to let myself think about it again.

* * *

**Royal Bitch (9:05 p.m.):** [picture of a Cancer zodiac horoscope: 'today, stop being a little bitch']

 **Royal Bitch (9:06 p.m.):** The universe has spoken.

 **Me (9:07 p.m.):** BAZ WHY ARE YOU LOOKING UP MY HOROSCOPE AT TWO IN THE MORNING

 **Me (9:07 p.m.):** have you skipped sleep to look up insults for me? Zodiac insults?!?!

 **Me (9:07 p.m.):** WHY ARE YOU LIKE THIS

 **Royal Bitch (9:08 p.m.):** Did you hear me? Stop being a little bitch. 

* * *

**Royal Bitch (11:15 p.m.):** Are you up?

I hit the call button as soon the message comes through.

"Hello?" I hear his posh, tired voice say. 

“Hi,” I breathe back. 

“It’s the middle of the night, Snow,” Baz says without any malice. He always answers like this, like he doesn't know why I'm calling.

“I know,” I say back, simply. 

The first time was Christmas Eve. It was the same text, “Are you up?”. I thought he was being cute, so I asked him if he was waiting up for Santa. Usually, he’d make some comment about how I’m a child, or correct me and tell me it’s “Father Christmas”, but he just said “cant sleep”. Improper grammar and everything. 

I called him on instinct.

He answered in the same strained voice, and I asked him why he was up until he finally answered.

“Christmas is hard for me,” he whispered, like it was a terrible secret. “I miss my Mum the most this time of year.”

My heart broke. “Oh,” I said, completely unhelpfully. 

“Yeah…” He said, shyly, and my brain screamed at me to say something helpful. 

“It’s okay to not be okay,” I said, tentatively, hoping that was the right thing. 

He paused, before saying, "I get nightmares."

"I do too." I admitted. And I do. I have since I was a child. Sometimes about my mother dying. Sometimes about my father, drunk and incoherent and yelling at me. He scared me a lot of the time when he was alive. I think would have started beating me if he had lived longer. He already started to get rough with me, even when I was seven. 

"Oh, I'm sorry," he said, but he sounded a little relieved. I understood how he felt; the nightmares can be so lonely, and it was nice to have someone else who got it.

"Um, so." I said. "Did you watch the Good Place this week?"

Baz seemed grateful for the subject change, and we talked about Kristen Bell and Ted Danson until he was ready to fall back asleep.

I try that tactic again tonight. "What's your opinion on Athena?" I try, expecting Baz to launch into one of his academic rants, now that I know he likes the Greek mythology.

"What do you think happens when we die?" he responds in an indecipherable tone, and I sit up, startled by the question.

"I don't know," I admit, unsure where he's going with this. "I like to imagine we go to a better place."

"I think nothing happens. I think that our bodies get eaten by maggots and history forgets us and nothing we did or cared about or loved matters." Baz says, his voice soaked in misery. 

A year ago, I couldn’t have imagined how dark it can get in Baz Pitch’s head; I still can’t totally make sense of his cynical commentary and unexpected irritability and morose moods. I have my suspicions about what those pills I saw him taking that weekend I spent with him in England are for, but I don’t want to be the one to bring it up. I think, if he tells me, he’ll do it when he’s ready. Though, it makes me regret every cruel thing I’ve ever said to him, now that I know it doesn’t just bounce off of him. I regret accusing him of being perfect, now that I see what a weight it's put on his shoulders to try to be.

Now that I know he’s not perfect, though… well, I like him more for it, not less. The image of him, laying in his King-sized bed in a palace at 4:00 a.m. thinking about death. Well, it breaks my heart. But it also makes me feel like we're not so fundamentally different.

"Baz," I whisper, "What was your nightmare about?"

I've never asked. I figured he might not want me to know, so I never felt like it was right to ask. But he's never sounded so sorrowful when he's called. So I think this should be the time I ask.

He's quiet for a moment, and then he says in a hushed tone, "My mum. All the worst ones are about my Mum."

My heart twists. "Mine are too."

"Really?" 

"Really."

Quiet, again. "I was in the car."

"What?"

"The car, when she died. I was in the car."

Everyone knows the story. Queen Natasha was in Paris, heading to her house in the French countryside, when the driver lost control of the car. It burst into flames, and she died from the burn injuries. Penny always talks about how brilliant she was: the first princess to get her P.H.D., the youngest Queen in centuries, the most charitable English monarch to date. She was apparently wildly brave: she married a non-royal against her family's wishes; she would ditch her security details to attend political protests; she was one of the first British royal figure to contact AIDS patients back when people still thought the disease could be airborne. Her death was a terrible tragedy internationally; she was so beloved.

I've never heard Baz was there, though. 

"Baz…"

"Father made sure that the papers didn't publish it. Gag orders, NDAs, the whole nine yards. He didn't want that day to follow me around for the rest of my life," He pauses. "But it does. I was barely even burned because she covered me with her own body and dragged me out of the car. I think… I think that's why she died."

"No," I say passionately.

"No?" Baz says in small voice.

"You would have both died if she hadn't done that, Baz. You can't blame yourself." He's silent so I keep talking. "My mother… well, you know she died giving birth to me. And sometimes I think that it's my fault. But I can't think about that. It doesn't help to think of things that hurt. It's better to just… not think."

He huffs an approximation of a laugh. "What a surprise, Snow. Your answer is not thinking."

"Shut up," I respond, amusement slipping into my voice at the familiarity of his insults.

"So all your nightmares are about your mom?" he asks.

"Yeah, some are. Sometimes they're about my dad. He… scared me." I've never said this to anyone, not even Penny, but I find myself admitting, "When he was drunk, he would blame me for my mom's death. Tell me he'd rather have had her alive, that I was a burden, things like that. He was cruel."

"I'm so sorry." Baz says in a low voice.

"It's okay. It's said and done, you know? I know the nightmares can't be helped, but… you can always call me. I'll answer whenever."

"Thank you. You know…" he says in an uncertain voice, "you could call me, too. If you think it would help, I mean."

My heart swells. I'd be lying if I didn't admit there were a few times I've wanted to. I just didn't want to bother him. 

"Thanks... You're my best friend," I say, even though that word isn't nearly enough to encompass all the things he is to me. 

"You're mine too." He says softly.

"I think…" I say. "I think our moms are watching over us, Baz. I think they're safe, and happy, and they love us."

"I like that thought, Simon" Baz says warmly, and my stomach jolts the way it always does when he says my name. "I think I can sleep now."

"Yeah?"

"Yeah. Goodnight, Simon."

"Goodnight, Baz."

I smile as I hang up, thinking about how sometimes our relationship seems so...real. The thought makes my stomach hurt and my palms sweat, so I put my headphones in and turn up the music so I can't think about what we might be doing here. 

When I fall asleep, I don't have any nightmares.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Here ya go! A shorter chapter, but I needed to get some of this out before we get to the next chapter, which will be a more intense. As always, comments and thoughts are appreciated <3 til next time friends


	10. Ready When You Are, Love

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Things get more serious and emotional between Baz and Simon.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> PLEASE READ:  
> TW: mention of self-harm and suicidal ideation.  
> Please, please, please, read this chapter with caution, and seek resources if you find yourself triggered by this subject or feel like you might recognize some self harm or suicidal tendencies in yourself. 1-800-273-8255 is not just an excellent song. It’s an excellent resource, one that quite frankly has saved my life.  
> I myself am a former self-harmer and I put in a lot of my own experiences to write this. This is the most difficult and private thing I’ve written and posted, so please be kind in the comments. I’m not against constructive criticism, but please be conscious that it’s a very sensitive, very complicated issue. (That being said- I know this particular experience and thought pattern is not true for everyone, even those who suffer from depression, suicidal thoughts, and self-harm as well. This is just my take, and my experience, but others are just as valid, of course).
> 
> That extremely intense intro aside.. hope you enjoy ! 
> 
> There’s also sex in this chapter so it’s not aaaaall angst. Just mostly angst

**Baz**

The only time Fiona’s ever quiet is when she’s playing her guitar.

Like right now, she’s strumming a Led Zeppelin song as I hum it a little under my breath. We’re on the floor of her living room, and she’s got a slight smile on her face, so different than her usual mischievous smirk. I see why she gave up her rights to the crown. I think she was born to be a musician. I think if she had been allowed to play anywhere other than local pubs, she’d have ended up the lead guitarist of Nirvana or Radiohead or some other great early 90s band. Well, if those bands hadn’t been such a boys club, that is.

For once, I don’t want Fiona quiet though.

“Can you play Lovesong?” I ask, interrupting her rendition of Stairway to Heaven.

“Why? Missing your boy toy?” Fiona mocks lightly.

“Fuck off,” I reply. We both know the real reason I want to hear the song; it’s just obligatory that ninety percent of our conversations are filled with teasing and insults.

I look down to the carpet and wait, knowing she never says no when I request this song.

Fiona’s words come out as a whisper as she starts to sing. “ _Whenever I’m alone with you, you make me feel like I am home again…_ ”

I smile. Lovesong was my mother’s favorite lullaby for me. My Mum had a lovely singing voice. Fiona used to conspiratorially joke that maybe my Mum was a “real live Disney princess”, which used to make me giggle and my mum affectionately roll her eyes. Fiona used to play the guitar while my mom sang the lyrics Fiona’s singing now.

_“Whenever I’m alone with you, you make me feel like I am whole again…_ ”

I know Fi was just joking about wanting to hear this song because I miss Simon. But… I really do miss him. He’s been busier, helping with his mum’s campaign. He’s so insecure about it- the appearances, the photo ops, the speeches. He doesn’t see how lovely he is. As much as I hate that his touring for the campaign means less visits to Europe and less of his constant messaging, I love being able to watch YouTube videos of his sweet, excited stumbling when I can’t sleep.

“ _Whenever I’m alone with you, you make me feel like I am young_ _again…”_

Though, the not sleeping thing hasn’t been so bad since our late night phone calls started. The line really keeps getting blurrier and blurrier here. I still feel like such a lovesick schoolgirl about him sometimes… okay, most of the time.

“ _Whenever I’m alone with you, you make me feel like I am fun again…”_

But it’s fine, because I am British, and a royal. And if those two things taught me anything, it’s how to compartmentalize. So I can have the flirtatious messaging and soothing calls and illicit sex, despite the fact all of that has added up to being more outrageously in love than ever.

“ _However far away, I will always love you_ …”

It doesn’t matter how I feel, anyways. Because it’s just me that’s in love. So I can make the choice to keep toeing this dangerous line, because I’m the only one who's going to get hurt. Simon is the sun- so beautiful and warm, but untouchable. I can’t own his heart. You can’t own the sun.

“ _However long I stay, I will always love you…”_

So I’m letting myself have the parts of Simon that I can get, damn the consequences. Even though my father is getting increasingly suspicious as I fall deeper and deeper in love. Because I thought I was going to live my whole life never really being touched, and now that I’ve had a taste of what it’s like to have intimacy... well, I just can’t let it go.

I join Fiona on the next line, “ _Whatever words I say, I will always love you… I will always love you…”_

The song trails off softly, sweetly. For two years, I made Fiona sing me that song every night after my Mum died, so it’s usually equally full of nostalgia and sorrow when she sings it. But today, Fiona sang the song hopefully. I look up from the carpet and meet Fiona’s eye, and she’s got a curious expression.

“Boyo,” she says, “I love you.”

I blush. I know Fiona loves me, but she’s not usually so forward about it.

“Sappy,” I say, and expect her to take it as an ‘ _I love you too’._

“Seriously, Basilton. I know I take the piss a lot, but I’m here for you. Always.” She says with a startlingly intensity. Her words warm me, though I still shift uncomfortably from all the affectionate attention.

Fiona knows I’m sleeping with Simon. She teases me about it constantly, mock complimenting my superb diplomatic hospitality and reminding me not to use public funds for private booty calls. But she’s never opened up the discussion to feelings. Though, maybe her taking the piss was her way of trying to start a conversation. Maybe this is her trying something else, since the joking hasn’t worked.

Maybe I should tell her how I feel.

“Fiona… I-” I start, but then both of our phones buzz at the exact same time. I grab for mine immediately, because it’s the noise for my Google Alert. It sounds off anytime any major news sources publish something about Simon.

The headline reads, “ _Exclusive: First Son Simon Snow’s Rough Upbringing!”_ . My heart sinks from my chest to the ground as I skim the article, and I see words like _alcoholic_ and _DUI_ and _juvenile delinquent_.

“Oh fuck,” I hear Fiona curse, and look and see she’s reading the same article as I am.

“Why do you have a Google Alert for Simon too?” I ask, shocked. “Wait, that doesn’t matter. I’ve got to call him.”

The phone rings and rings, but I get his voicemail. _Hi, You’ve reached my phone, but I’m busy right now, so leave a message. [muffled talking and laughing]. Or just call Pen, I’m usually with her anyways. [beep]._

I scroll through my contacts, stopping when I reach Velma and press call. The phone rings twice before I hear Penelope’s pleasant voice say “Oh, hello, Baz! How are y-”

“Are you with Snow?” I interrupt, figuring this is no time for niceties.

“What? Uh, no, why? Is he not answering your texts for once in his life? He’s usually glued to the thing, always talking to y-”

“Check _The New York Times.”_

I hear Penelope excuse herself from wherever she is right now. “Okay, okay, one moment, pulling it up now,” she says in a hurried tone. “Holy motherfucking shit!” She says, after only 45 seconds.

“I know.” I reply.

“I can’t _believe_ they published this. I can’t fucking _believe-_ ” she starts, and I interrupt what is sure to be a long rant.

“Where’s Simon?”

“I- fuck, I don’t know, I’m at a charity brunch, I think he’s just at home or something. I’ll leave right now and go check on him and tell you what-”

“I’m coming now. I’ll see you in nine hours,” I say, and then I hang up.

* * *

I have time to fully read the article on the plane, and the rage builds hot and indignant in my chest. The article was reprehensible: Explicit details on his mother’s teenage pregnancy and her cause of death. Background on his father- his drinking, his criminal charges, and, worst of all, the suggestion that Simon probably inherited the alcoholic gene. Information on what kind of kid Simon was in his orphanages and his foster homes- the fights he got into, his shoplifting phase, how he never was able to stay in one place for more than two months at a time. It’s so invasive that I feel dirty reading it, even though I already knew most of it. By the time we land, I feel ready to go to war for him- to _start_ a war for him- to do anything it takes to make him feel better.

As I’m pulling up to the White House, I read the latest text from Penny. _I’m glad you’re here. I’m sure it’ll help_.

Ebb, who I know is Snow’s favorite staffer, leads me to his bedroom with an appreciative half-smile. All my tiredness from the travel and time differences evaporates when I see Simon.

He’s curled up in a ball in his bed in his pajamas, and his nose and eyes are red. Penelope’s stroking his hair and Agatha’s head is on his shoulder as they watch television together. When I walk in, they all turn to me.

“Baz,” Simon whispers in a small voice, and I walk over to where him, crawling on the king-sized bed with the lot of them.

“Well, you look like a mess.” I say flatly, sitting on his bed. He laughs, and the knot in my chest loosens. He doesn’t hesitate to crawl into my arms when I open them for him. I’m embarrassed that Penelope and Agatha are here to see it, but I let him cry softly into my chest anyways.

“It’s okay. It’s okay,” I whisper, leaving off the ‘love’ since we have company. I turn toward the television to avoid their prying eyes, and laugh when I see what he’s watching.

“Snow,” I say in an amused voice, “are you watching Queer Eye?”

Simon pulls back from my chest to look me in the eye. “Yes,” He says softly.

“You idiot. This is only going to make you cry more.” I say, my tone exasperated.

“Yeah, but. I like it. I like watching them be very… themselves,” he says, quoting me. My stomach explodes with butterflies.

“Okay, then, Snow. Shove over and make some room for me.” I say, and he smiles softly at me.

“You’re willing to watch Queer Eye? Really?” Agatha questions. I shouldn’t be surprised that Simon really didn’t tell anyone how much I love this show, but I am.

“I’ll make the sacrifice, since Snow’s so weepy,” I say, and I send him a private smile he doesn’t hesitate to return.

I keep my arm around his shoulders as the four of us finish the episode. He’s not crying, just breathing softly with his head on my shoulder. I feel guilty about it, since he’s feeling so vulnerable, but I’m hyper aware of every point of contact. Our legs, knees, and hips perfectly aligned, his cheek on the top of my shoulder, his hand at my inner thigh. I think about Mr. Bean to stop myself from getting a poorly timed boner.

When the credits roll, Penelope and Agatha get up simultaneously. “Well, we’re headed off to bed,” they say, even though it’s not even 9:00 pm in D.C. time, and leave us alone in Simon’s bedroom.

I let us lose a little of our closeness so I can pull back and look at his face. “How are you, love?”

His bottom lip is a little ragged from chewing on it- a nervous habit of his- and the blue of his eyes is piercing, the color intensified by the tears pooling in them.

“I just. I. Did you read it?” He says.

I pause. “Yes,” I say truthfully. “I wanted to know how upset you’d be when I got here. Did you not want me to? I’m sorry if I shouldn’t have.” I feel like I'm rambling, but I can’t help it. His vulnerability is making me feel so nervous.

“No, no. I mean, it’s okay. I don’t mind _you_ knowing all those things about me, I just meant…” He trails off, looking thoughtful. “It was… particularly malicious.”

“Yeah,” I say, thinking of one line in particular. ' _Simon Snow is not the sweet boy he presents himself as, but a dangerous criminal.'_

“My juvenile record… the judge sealed it. No one should have been able to get them. I hit a kid that was picking on me in one of my foster home, and the parents didn’t want to deal with me, so they dropped me off at the station. That’s why I was in juvie. And I only ever stole food when I was hungry.” He says shyly. “I’m not… I’m not violent.”

“Oh, Simon.” I say, my heart breaking as I look at this sweet boy. “I know.”

“I think this is Mr. Humdrum,” he whispers.

My palms shake a little as anger rushes into me. I’ve done some research into that fucker. He’s all the worst things about politics: dirty tactics, blatant bigotry, and autocratic obsessions. I already knew he was a trash human being before, but I’ve been keeping tabs on him since that day Simon called me panicking about him. The extra research has only further confirmed my original thoughts: this guy is a scumbag.

Especially if he’s the one who did this.

  
  
"Well," I whisper back, "you may not be violent, but I am. Want me to punch him? Defend your honor?"

Simon gives me a weak smile. "I have a feeling that would be an international scandal. The kind that we're supposed to be avoiding."

"Perhaps, but it would be a lot of fun." I tease.

"Yeah…" He says, half-heartedly. "Do you ever just want it all to stop?

"The press? Constantly."

"No. Everything. I wish I could just...not exist sometimes."

My stomach twists. "Don't say that." I say, harsher than I mean to in my panic at his words.

Shame washes over his face, and he looks paralyzed in what he must take as rejection or a lack of understanding. But I understand all too well. "No, no, Simon," I whisper, trying to make my voice kinder, softer. "I just meant… don't think like that. I can't bear it."

"Don't you feel like this sometimes, too?" he asks after a careful pause.

I think back to nine years old, when my mother first died, when I couldn't get out of bed for days at a time. To eleven, the first time that I thought that it should have been me instead of her, the first time I realized that there was a very real and very scary part of me that would rather be dead than alive. To thirteen, and the overwhelming panic and self hatred that would come over me, how I would deal with the emotions I couldn't handle by taking my sharp nails to my wrist, carving deep crescent marks into my skin. How it went from fingernails to safety pins to knives. How I couldn't go swimming or take my clothes off in locker rooms because then everyone would _see_. Everyone would see the damage that had come out from inside of me and manifested onto my flesh. The wounds I had etched into myself.

I make the decision very quickly, not knowing if it's the right one even as I'm sure it's the one I want to make. "I'm going to show you something. Alright?"

Simon nods, and I roll up my sleeves. I gingerly place my arms palm up in front of him. They're hardly noticeable anymore- not a tenth as unsettling as it was at sixteen. The years and Mederma have faded the scars, but they're not gone. You just have to know to look for them.

Simon's seen me without any clothes on before, but this is the first time I feel like I'm standing naked in front of him. I see the moment it clicks, when he realizes what he's supposed to be looking at. His eyes widen slightly and his body stills. When he runs his thumb along a particularly notable scar, I shudder a little, self consciously.

"Everything was… really hard when I was a teenager." I start to explain. "I was really lonely. My dad was distant, and I felt so out of place at Eton. Even with Dev and Niall there. I just felt like… Like I was the only person on the planet, even in a room full of people. Even if those people were screaming my name. _Especially_ when those people were screaming my name. And. I don't know. I wanted control, or a release, or…" I huff in annoyance, that even after hundreds of hours of therapy, I can't find the right words to explain. Sometimes I doubt there are any words in the English dictionary that can ever really explain the urge to hurt yourself. "I don't know what I wanted. I just knew what I didn't, and that was the life I was living. But… then I got help. Doctors, who were able to diagnose me, and explain to me that I had a chemical imbalance in my brain, and that there was medication that could help me. And so I did that, and got a therapist, and then… I don't know. It didn't fix me completely. But I'm much better now. And I don't hurt myself anymore."

I can't meet his eyes, so I can't read Simon's expression. I'm just praying that I haven't made a total mistake by telling him all this. I don't think I've talked about it this much, all at once, to anyone but my therapist before, and I'm feeling horribly exposed, like a dissected frog laid open on this White House bed. "I just… I get it, you know? But life is so much more than its worst moments. And you are so much more than your worst thoughts."

I finally get the nerve to look up at him, and I'm startled that there isn't an ounce of disgust or discomfort or disillusionment in his face. Just gentle understanding as he takes my right wrist, and pulls my forearm to his mouth to kiss my skin delicately, starting with the scar closest to him. "So are you," he murmurs, and just like that, my nerves dissolve like they were never there. I've never craved this kind of touch- never thought to want it- but as Simon slowly places soft kisses up my forearm I feel a mixture of relief and adoration. No one has ever really reacted to this in a way that hasn’t made me feel like a freak show. But Simon- the same Simon who struggles to get through a sentence without mumbling or littering the sentiments with "like"s and "um"s- Simon always manages to respond in unexpectedly perfect ways, like a golden storybook hero come to life. Of course he'd be the one to say the right thing while hardly saying a thing at all.

I let out a breath I didn’t know I was holding. Simon hears it and looks up at me with his big blue eyes. Then, he leans up to kiss me.

It's salty and wet from all the tears shed tonight, but so sweetly sentimental that my heart aches with longing and fear. I brush back the hair from his face, feel his soft curls under my fingertips, and see the way he's shaking, just slightly.

I crawl into his lap and the kiss deepens. I lick the roof of his mouth and he moans contentedly. He’s massaging circles with his thumbs at the top of my neck, right below my earlobe, and the gesture is so comforting and domestic, that I pull back and hear myself say, “do you want to make love?”

I cringe internally at the childishness of the term and the fact that I just introduced the concept of love into the bedroom. But then Simon’s nodding enthusiastically, like I’ve offered him all the sour cherry scones in the world, and my mouth gets dry at the amount of electric desire I feel flowing between us.

I get up off him, and Simon lets out a cry of protest that brings a smile to my face. "Easy, love," I murmur. "Just going to get this."

I pull condoms and lube out of my overnight bag. I've had it packed on our last few visits, waiting to see if the moment presented itself. I guess this is it.

Simon gapes at me. "Have you been plotting this?"

I scoff. "Plotting? Really? Why are you making me seem like some top-hat-wearing, handlebar-mustache-twirling Victorian era villain, here to steal your virtue?"

Simon blushes crimson. "I just didn't know you wanted to," he says shyly.

_Of course I want to!_ My brain supplies. _I'm in love with you!_

I, obviously, don't say that. Instead, I say, “Have you ever done this before?”

Simon pauses. “Yes. No.”

“Not with a boy?” I press, knowing the answer is yes.

“Not when I really wanted it.” He says unselfconsciously, and the hoard of butterflies that have been resting in my stomach fly to my chest.

I manage to nod. "Right. Um. I'll just. Get Ready." I hold up the lube bottle as an explanation, and nod my chin towards the master bathroom.

Simon frowns. "Can't I do that?"

"Wh-what?" I ask, a little shocked.

"Can't I help you get ready?" He asks. "I mean, if you want me to."

Simon Snow is asking if he can finger me. Holy fuck. I am living a charmed life. I nod and join him on the bed, and we start kissing again, the soft pecks growing into a more frenzied snog as our clothes start to come off.

My breath catches in my throat when he reaches down and touches my arse. I've touched myself here before, touched myself thinking of _Simon,_ but none of my half-baked fantasies could have prepared me for the weight of this moment.

"I. I, well. I've never done this before." Simon says, as his fingertip circles my hole.

"Noted," I say, my breath ragged with arousal.

"So. Just. Tell me if it's okay. If you like it. Yeah?"

He sounds desperate to please me, and it makes my cock jump in anticipation. "You might want to lube up your fingers," I say, instead of what I'm thinking, which is _there is no way you could touch me that I wouldn't like._

He dives for the lube I left on the nightstand, and puts too much on his hands in his eagerness.

He leans over and kisses my neck quickly, affectionately, before he says, "ready?"

I nod. "Carry on, Simon."

When he slides the first finger inside of me I let out a guttural grunt from the shock of the sudden pressure. Simon moves so slowly, excruciatingly gentle, rubbing his fingertips in slow massaging circles inside of me. "This okay?" he mumbles.

"More," I demand.

He puts even more lube on his hand- comically unnecessary, but I manage not to laugh- and pushes two fingers inside of me. I grab his biceps to try to keep level-headed with all this new stimulation, but I can't help myself when I begin to grind my hips down onto his fingers. He lets out a surprised, well-pleased groan at my fervor.

"Yeah?" He breathes out, a smile in his voice.

"Yeah," I start to say, but it becomes choked off when he finds that sweet spot inside of me with the tips of his fingers. "Oh, _fuck yes yes yes_ " I start to chant. The loudness of my voice seems to startle him, and he stops.

"Did I find it?" he asks, sounding awed.

"Yes, _yes,_ you fucking imbecile, you did, so _don't stop._ " I snap without any malice; honestly, it's much closer to begging than I've gotten since that first time in this same bedroom.

Simon's face breaks into a cat-who-caught-the-canary smile, as he rubs that spot inside of me again, and again, and again. Pleasure rolls over me in heavy, heated waves; and I can tell I'm talking, but I can't quite hear myself. Something like _please_ and _baby_ and _don't stop don't stop I'll die if you stop._ When I can't take it anymore, I choke out, "fuck me, please please fuck me!"

Simon's eyes are hooded with desire, and the moment I ask him to fuck me, he's scrambling to get the lube and condoms. I get a rush of adrenaline when I realize how hard he is, pre-cum gathering on the head of his cock. That's what snaps me into the reality of this situation: I'm about to lose my virginity. I'm about to lose my virginity to _Simon fucking Snow._

I try not to panic as he rolls the condom onto himself and hovers over me. I don't want to seem desperate- but I _am_ desperate- so I reach up to grab him by the back of his neck and lock him into a searing kiss. I try to put all the words I cannot say into the kiss- all the _I've wanted this for so long_ and the _there's nothing I want more than this_ and the _there will never be anyone I want more than you-_ I just try to put all the want in my body into his.

I think it works, because when I pull back, he's panting like he's run a marathon. "Tell me if it hurts," he says as he lines himself up.

" _Now,_ Simon, _now_ -" I demand. I gasp loudly when he listens and starts to push himself into me.

I close my eyes and see stars. The rest of the world disappears- everything that isn't me and Simon in this bed doesn't exist anymore. It does hurt- just a little- but I decide not to tell him because there's more far more pleasure than pain.

"Baz," Simon chokes out as he's slid all the way inside of me, and I open my eyes to look into his. I let myself drown in his blue irises. I'm shocked to see he's starting to cry a little- I did not take him as someone who cries in bed. When I imagined us fucking, he was always feral and rough and dominating. I never let myself imagine it like this- the softness of his expression, the kindness of his gaze, the carefulness of his movements. So much more making love than fucking. But I guess I'm getting what I asked for.

"Simon," I respond, and my voice is so reverent that it sounds like a prayer. He starts to move, really move, sliding in and out of me, and the only noises in this room are the wet sound of skin on skin and my heavy breathing and Simon's sweet voice whispering my name every time he fills me.

I could never have guessed the way his heart feels spilled out onto these sheets, the way his bottom lip is quivering and his hands are shaking. I didn't know I wasn't the only one who was so nervous.

"Simon, baby," I whisper, trying to sound comforting. "Good, so good."

"Yeah?" he breathes out, a little disbelieving.

"Yes, yes, _yes_."

He grabs my prick in his hands and my back arches. There's so much sensation in my body I think I might be alight with the Olympic flame, the experience is so sacred and holy and godly. My orgasm builds slowly, and then explodes out of me suddenly, with a strangled, " _Simon, love, oh"._

I come down from the high after a moment, warm in the afterglow, and Simon's still moving inside of me. "Come for me, Simon," I whisper. "Come, love, come, come, come."

He whimpers and picks up his speed a little. I'm hypersensitive to his movements- but not in a bad way- as he climbs to the finish. His face is screwed up in tortured pleasure, his cheeks wet, and on instinct I reach up to kiss the tears away. That's when he comes, with a high-pitched moan, and I can feel the growing wetness inside of me even through the condom he's got on. He opens his eyes and looks at me, looking beautifully ripped open.

"I don't want to move," he says and I'm relieved.

"Me neither," I whisper, "Stay a second."

He does stay inside me as our breathing slows from heavy pants to gentle exhales. I flinch a little when he finally does pull out, from the shock of the change more than anything, and he asks, in a concerned voice, "are you okay?"

"More than okay," I say, honestly, not meeting his eyes.

Which is true. But, also… we just crossed an invisible, yet all too real, line, and the consequences of this affair that I've been trying to run from catch up to me in a moment's time.

I don't know what the fuck I'm doing.

"Hey-" Simon says, probably able to hear my gears in my brain turning on the highest speed there is. "You wanted that, right?"

_Yes, so much._ I turn to him and nod.

"Then, no overthinking." he says, a sleepy smile on his face as he closes his eyes for a moment. I don't bother trying to smile back, since he can't see me. His right hand is resting on my left cheek, and we're curled face-to-face, just a breath's distance away.

"Baz. That was. Wow." Simon says softly, with his eyes shut. My heart's beating hard in my chest at the adoration in his voice. No, it's more than adoration, I think it might be-

He starts to whisper, "Baz, I think I might, well- I-"

“I have to use the restroom," I interrupt abruptly, disentangling myself from him. His eyes flutter open, and I can't mistake the ounce of hurt I see reflected in them.

"Okay," he whispers, before he closes his eyes again.

I stop myself just short of sprinting out of the room, and just go to the bathroom and lock the door behind myself. I splash my face with water, and then look into the vanity mirror above the sink. My black hair is messy around my face, sticking up in the back. My lips are swollen and red from all the kissing. My eyes- well, my eyes are wild and red-rimmed, and I realize _I_ must have been crying a little too during.

I'm not sure if I recognize myself.

_Too far_ , I think, _too much_.

There is no way to play off what just happened as casual fun between mates. There's no way to make light of the way his eyes shone every time they met mine, the way our bodies fit together like puzzle pieces, the way that what we just did felt like the most significant thing I've ever done.

There's no way to forget the moment where I'm sure he was going to say he was in love with me, too.

I let out a quiet sob. _Too far, too much._ I'm the heir to the throne, I can't be doing this. I can't, I can't, I can't. It doesn't matter what I want, _I can't._

I clean myself up and walk back out into the bedroom. Simon's fast asleep, his arm clutching the bedsheets where I was ten minutes ago. My heart breaks and sinks and screams as I walk over to the bedside table and call Possibelf.

"We need to leave right now," I whisper, and then hang up.

I stroke his hair before I leave the bedroom, and whisper into the dark room, "good night, love."

And then I'm gone.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Ok, I’ll say it before y’all do-  
> Baz honey why would you DO that 
> 
> Also my search history is weird right now because of this fic ur welcome


	11. The Moment You First Called Me A Prick, My Fate Was Sealed

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Simon wakes up the morning after Baz and his first time.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Thank you so so much for the overwhelming support for the last chapter. I can’t even put into words how much I appreciated it. Well, I guess I can in the form of this chapter. Enjoy <3
> 
> TW: internalized homophobia

**Simon**

When I wake up, I’m naked and it’s cold. I reach out for Baz with closed eyes and a small smile, but I freeze when I realize he’s not here.

I open my eyes, and it’s late morning, judging by the harsh yellow light spilling into my window. I look around the room for him, my eyes falling on the open bathroom door, expecting his head to pop out to call me a _lazy wanker_ or some other British insult- or maybe, if he’s in a really good mood, an affectionate _sleepyhead_ \- but the room is too quiet for him to be here. I get up, slipping on my sweatpants and a NASA T-shirt Pen gave me for Christmas, and go down to the kitchen to look for Baz.

_Last night was so much._ I think with a smile as I make my way down the stairs. _So much_.

Everything clicked into place, all these years of playing cat and mouse. The insults and fighting and texting and kissing and phone calls and sex. I was inside of him, and everything that wasn’t Baz faded to black. He let me in, and I could see what his heart looked like without any of the armor. That’s when I realized.

This is what love feels like. _Baz_ is what love feels like.

“Where’s Baz?” I ask when I get to the dining room. Aggie and Pen are sitting together, eating Sunday brunch.

"Can't keep track of your man, loverboy?" Agatha asks, shoving pancakes into her mouth and smirking. I throw a croissant at her.

"Keep your voice down." I hiss, looking around to make sure it's just the three of us in here.

"Simon, your neck is covered in hickies. Don't try to make me out to be the one who's lacking subtlety." Agatha says, unaffected.

I shove the collar of my shirt up. Fuck, I really need to start looking in the mirror in the morning.

"Both of you wouldn't know subtlety if it knocked you over the head with a frying pan." Penny interjects. "But seriously, how _do_ you lose track of someone you slept with last night?"

I choke on my orange juice.

“You two are the worst!” I exclaim. “Wait, how can you tell we had sex last night?”

Penny’s eyes go wide. “I meant sleep as in _sleep_. Like the thing you do when it’s night time and you close your eyes until morning.”

“Oh,” I say, and if I was blushing red before, I must be positively crimson now.

Both of them are laughing heartily at me when Ebb walks in.

“Ebb!” I say cheerfully, glad that she interrupted what was sure to be a long and mortifying interrogation from Pen and Aggie about my and Baz’s first time. “Have you seen Baz- uh Basilton- the prince? He’s here, by the way.”

Ebb looks uncomfortable, and I wonder if maybe I should have gotten permission before housing a royal in the White House. I’m about to apologize for not asking her or anyone first, when she says “Basilton left."

"Left? Where? To get food, or something?" I ask, confused.

"No…" she says carefully. “He left with Ms. Possibelf late last night. I wanted to come wake you, but…”

“But what?” I ask anxiously.

“But they told me not to. Something about security,” Ebb says, but she doesn’t look like she believes that excuse any more than I do. My eyes fall to her outstretched hands, holding a folded piece of paper. “The prince gave me this to give to you.”

I rip it out of his hands so quickly I nearly tear the letter. My heart is beating so quickly I can feel it in my throat.

_Snow,_

_Had to leave early for a family matter. Didn’t want to wake you._

_Basilton_

As I read, I hear it in Baz’s musical voice. It’s just in my head, but I imagine I can hear his voice go up at the end of the sentence, Baz's tell-tale sign when he's lying.

* * *

**Me (11:16 a.m.):** family stuff?? are you okay?

 **Me (11:25 a.m.):** do you wanna talk?

 **Me (2:04 p.m.):** just let me know you’ve made the trip safely

 **Me (4:45 p.m.):** why do you keep sending me to voicemail??

 **Me (10:19 p.m.):** Are you up?

 **Me (10:49 p.m.):** good night I hope you have sweet dreams

 **Me (7:15 a.m.):** good morning

 **Me (7:16 a.m.):** well not morning for you but you know what I mean

 **Me (3:37 p.m.):** Please talk to me

 **Me (6:01 p.m.):** Baz seriously stop ignoring me

 **Me (6:02 p.m.):** did I do something wrong

 **Me (8:37 p.m.):** you could just text me back to tell me to fuck off if you want

 **Me (8:39 p.m.):** or call me and yell at me if you're upset with me

 **Me (8:40 p.m.):** or i dont know maybe ill yell at you for totally ditching me

 **Me (8:40 p.m.):** u would fuckin deserve it Pitch

 **Me (10:16 p.m.):** Tyrannus Basilton Grimm-Pitch where the fuck have you gone

 **Me (11:04 p.m.):** please talk to me

* * *

I take the hint after 36 hours. Just like last time, I know Baz isn’t going to talk to me just because I’m bombarding his phone. If he wants someone out of his life, he’ll do it with a dagger, sharp and ragged and scarring.

I think he wants me out of his life.

That doesn’t stop me from checking my text messages constantly. Every five minutes, the first day. Every ten, the second. It has been twelve days of silence, and I can manage to go two hours without checking now. Though, I spend most of those two hours _thinking_ about checking it, so I’m not sure I can claim I’ve made much improvement.

I’m thinking about caving and trying to call Baz again, maybe leave a message begging him to talk to me, when I hear a soft knock at the door.

Penny pops her head in. Her voice is soft, like it has been every day since Baz left. She's tried to get me to talk about it but I just can't. I don't have the words. “Hey, Si. Mom wants to talk to you.”

Mom’s been on the road campaigning a lot since the New York Times article about me came out. She promises it didn’t hurt her approval ratings, but I’m afraid she’s just saying that to spare my feelings.

I follow Penny to the Oval Office, and Mitali is sitting behind the desk ruffling through some papers.

“Hi, mom,” we say in unison.

“Hello, my Siamese twins.” She says affectionately. Despite my gloomy mood about Baz, the nickname for us brings a small smile to my face. She calls us that because she says that she thinks we might be actually twins, separated at birth. I don’t care that it makes not logistic sense, because it always makes me feel like a real part of this family.

She looks at Penny, and says, “I’ll talk to you later, sweetie.”

“What?” Penny says, seemingly surprised by her dismissal. “But I want to talk with Simon, too-”

“Later,” Mom says with finality. Penny huffs, but concedes. She gives me a quick side hug and walks out.

“I had Ebb make these for you. I know they’re better when you make them, but she says you haven’t been baking lately.” She pushes forward a plate of sour cherry scones that I didn’t notice before. I reach for one and sit down across from her.

“Did I ever tell you that my parents wanted to arrange my marriage?” She says.

I’m surprised, both by that fact and that this is what she wants to talk about. “No.”

“Well, they did. They wanted me to marry within the culture, continue on the traditions. They met through an arranged marriage when they lived in India, and they were both very, very happy. They wanted the same for me.”

I don’t know what to say to this, or where this is going, so I say nothing.

“There was an element of choice to it. I met- what, a dozen?- men over the course of a year, but I kept saying no.They kept trying though. They were all kind enough men, but I just had a gut feeling that none of them were right for me.” She says thoughtfully. “It all made sense when I met Martin. Why I had that gut feeling. I was waiting for him.”

Mitali’s got this lovestruck look on, and it makes her face look younger. Like she’s been transported back to eighteen, to the early days of her first love.

“My parents weren’t very thrilled, at first. They had a future planned out for me already, and marrying a white man wasn’t part of that future. They tried to explain to me how much better it would be to do things their way, but I said no. Because that would be living a lie. Being with anyone else would be a lie, because it wouldn’t be him. Do you know what I mean?” Mitali says meaningfully. The carefulness in her tone is how I realize her point, where she's going with this.

She knows about Baz.

Guilt rushes into me for keeping this a secret from her. Fuck, I’m just now realizing how much an affair with a foreign monarch could have ruined this campaign for her. That having an adopted, queer son might be just way too much for the American public at large to handle.

“Mom, I-” I start, but Mitali cuts me off by lifting her hand.

“Simon Snow. Don’t you dare apologize to me right now.” She says her face deathly serious. “You should never apologize for love. It’s much more important than anything else, this office included.”

I feel the tears prickling at the back of my eyes.

“My parents were eventually thrilled with my choice. It took some time for their expectations to adjust, but they both cried tears of joy at the wedding. Love wins, sweetheart.”

“But,” I choke out. “I don’t think he loves me back.”

“Are you sure?” She asks inquisitively.

I laugh bitterly. “Pretty sure.”

“Pretty sure is not sure.” She points out. “Listen, Simon. _Listen.”_ She takes my hands in hers. “Does it feel like forever? Because if it does, you need to fight for it. Fuck the consequences.”

I laugh, because Mitali almost never curses. It makes her laugh too. She gets up to give me a tight hug, and the tears start to fall down my face in earnest, now.

“Okay, hunny? If this is true love, you know what you have to do?” She asks softly. I think of the media reports that make Mitali out to be stone cold, heartless, a ruthless politician. They're so categorically wrong about her, that it makes me think that I shouldn't put so much stock into what the the press says about me. Clearly, they don't really know a damn thing about us. 

The plan forms so quickly in my head that I have to admit I had already had it half-formed since the moment I heard he was gone.

“Yes, I think I do.”

* * *

“Ms. Possibelf.” I say, in an exasperated voice. “I totally respect you and all that, but you need to know I’m getting into that palace if it’s the last thing I do.”

“Mr. Snow, I’m sorry. I can’t take you into the palace.” Ms. Possibelf says for the tenth time. I want to yell at her, but she really does sound sorry.

“Can’t or won’t?” I challenge.

“Can’t. Prince Basilton explicitly gave orders not to let you in.”

I’m so mad, I’m seeing red. I laugh bitterly. “That prick really did, didn’t he?” I turn to the balcony that I know is his, and the curtains are ruffling. I see a flash of raven hair, and I know he’s at the window. “HEY MOTHERFUCKER!” I scream. “GET YOUR ASS OUT HERE RIGHT FUCKING NOW!”

Possibelf is looking panicked at my outburst. “Mr. Snow, this is not-” she starts to chastise, but I’m not finished.

“IF YOU WANT TO BREAK UP WITH ME, YOU’RE GOING TO HAVE TO COME OUT HERE AND DO IT YOURSELF, DARLING. OR I WILL STAY HERE AND SCREAM ALL NIGHT. I WILL SET UP CAMP HERE, AND-”

“Oh my fucking God,” I hear, and I turn and Princess Fiona is standing there in her pajamas with her arms crossed and a thoroughly amused look on her face. “I thought my nephew was dramatic. But you take the cake. Truly.”

“Let me in right now,” I demand, before I think better of speaking like that to a princess. I must have had too much practice speaking like that to a prince. 

She doesn’t look offended, though; more like exasperated. “Happily,” She says. “I was wondering when you were going to finally show up and knock some sense into him.”

“Looks like now,” I mutter unhappily. My neck's tense from the rush to the airport, the coach class seat, from keeping my head down to hide my messy appearance from all the curious passengers. Well- and from the fact that my heart has decided to take up residence in my throat. I try to swallow it back into my chest as I cross the threshold into the palace.

Fiona takes me to Baz's royal apartment, and I knock loud and hard, like I’m confident about my decision to be here. There’s no response for a full minute.

“ _Jesus fucking Christ, Baz,”_ I swear, thinking he’s going to leave me out here. I’m about to start screaming when the door flings open.

“Why did you let him in? _”_ Baz says to his aunt, eyes blazing. He doesn’t look very good. I mean, he always looks attractive, that’s a given, but he’s pale and his eyes are red-rimmed with purple bags underneath. I forget I’m mad for a moment, and just want to kiss every inch of his face. Until he turns his rage on me. “Why do you think it’s okay to show up at the palace this late and demand an audience with me? Were you raised in a barn?” He hisses. And I’m back to being furious with him.

“No, an orphanage. Let me in, asshole.” I say, and push the door open and walk in before he can protest. Baz sighs dramatically.

“I’ve got it from here, Fiona.” Baz says to her sharply.

Fiona looks like a part of her wants to stay and watch, but Baz sends her a fierce glare, and she throws her hands up defensively and walks away.

The front door closes, and the air crackles with electric tension.

“Okay,” Baz says quietly. “I’m going to let you say what you need to say, and then you’re going to leave.”

My stomach drops at the detached tone he’s using. I haven’t heard him speak like this to me-like he doesn’t care- in almost a year. It hurts like hell to hear him put up his cold facade now.

“I’m _sorry,”_ I say sarcastically. “Am I inconveniencing you? Is this not fun for you? Guess what else is not fun? Getting fucking _ghosted_ for two weeks isn’t fun-“

“Snow-“

“Don’t _Snow_ me! You don’t get to have sex with me, and then leave me high and dry in the middle of the fucking night!

"Snow-" he tries again, holding out his arm like he's trying to calm me down. It only serves to make me even angrier.

"What the fuck was that about? Letting me wake up alone? You might get to do that with your other booty calls, but-”

“ _What_ 'other booty calls'? _"_ Baz snaps, emotion finally seeping into his voice. "I’ve only ever been with _you!_ ”

I'm surprised by this revelation. Baz always seemed to know exactly what he was doing. Plus, he's _Baz._ He's clever, witty, drop dead gorgeous, not to mention an actual Prince Charming. Well, maybe not _charming,_ exactly, but his snark is so endearing to me now that it might as well be charming. I didn't even consider the possibility he was inexperienced. An awful idea enters my mind, and I ask the question as quickly as the shameful thought comes.

"Did. Did I do something wrong? Did you not like it?"

I thought it was…. Well, I thought it was damn near perfect. The way he looked at me during… I thought he was in the same place that I was.

Baz looks exasperated when he rolls his eyes. "Jesus, no. It's not that."

"Then, what is it, Baz?" I ask, and I'm begging now, desperate to make sense of this mess. "Why did you leave me? Why don’t you want to talk to me anymore?"

"Snow, you wouldn't understand-"

"Then explain it to me!" I snap at him.

"Why can't you just let this go?" Baz growls, pulling out his hair in frustration. He's let it grow out, so it's almost to his shoulders now. I think about how he looked two weeks ago, laid out on my bed as we made love, his hair fanning out around his face. Messy and careless and perfect and _mine._ For that night, at least, I was sure he was mine.

I put all the heartbreak and desperation I've felt every second since he left me into my voice when I scream at him, "because, I fucking love you, you absolute prick!"

I finally really understand the phrase "silence is deafening". Because it gets so quiet after I yell that, that there's a ringing in my ears. Baz looks like I've punched him in the face.

"Don't say that." He whispers. "You can't say that."

"Why the hell not? It's true." I say in a broken voice, figuring I may as well give up on the concept of keeping any shred of my dignity intact. "I love every single part of you. Even when you make it difficult, like right fucking now. I'm so fucking mad that you left me after we made love, and there's a big part of me that wants to punch you in the face for it. But I'm still completely, totally, irreversibly in love with you."

I wait for him to speak. It feels like it takes a lifetime. When he finally opens his mouth, he says, "Simon. I'm the heir to the throne.”

“Yeah,” I say, annoyed. I don’t feel like that was an appropriate response to my declaration of love.

“This was never supposed to happen. You weren’t supposed to fall in love with me.” He says, and it sounds like he’s desperately trying to explain a simple concept to a toddler.

“Well I’m so sorry my feelings weren’t a part of your plan. I’m so _sorry_ me falling in love with you is so difficult and unexpected for you.” I try to make my voice harder, but it breaks and cracks with unshed tears.

“Snow-” Baz says forcefully, but I'm not finished.

“Why would you even start this in the first place? Why did you kiss me on Halloween if you couldn’t do this, if this wasn't real to you? Why-”

“Because!” Baz yells, and I realize now that he’s crying. “I love you! I have been in love with you the whole bloody time! For _years_ , from the moment I laid eyes on you!”

I’m sure now I’m the one who looks like they’ve been punched in the face.

"I have loved you and wanted you for so long, but _I can't have it!_ Don't you understand? I'm the fucking heir. I am my mother's only son, I can't be with you, no matter what I want. Don't you see? I am the face of this fucking nation, and no one is going to let me be this! I can't be gay!"

"But, Baz." I say softly. "You are gay."

"I bloody well know that! But no one else can! We don't have a _future_ , Simon."

“Baz,” I plead, and reach out for him, but he backs away. “ _Baz_.”

“I _can’t.”_ He cries, and my heart breaks in two. I don't know if I'm more upset for myself or Baz. Though, if I could take either of our pain away, I'd pick his in a heartbeat. "You don't get it. My dad will never let me destroy my mum's legacy and risk the crown. I can't."

“ _Darling_ ,” I try, hoping it would be the thing that convinces him not to end this. The thing to bring my sweet Baz- who gets on a private jets for me and whispers secrets to me on the phone in the dead of night and teases me for my taste in music and calls me baby in bed- back to me. But it's not enough. He just turns away from me, his shoulders hunched in defeat.

“Simon, just _go._ I can’t do this. I’m sorry I ever started this.” He says in a small voice.

“I’m not,” I cry, and his body tenses. "I'm not a damn bit sorry."

"You can't be here, Snow.” He says, his voice hardening.

My skin heats up, and I feel like I’m on fire. Like I've hit my breaking point. Like my blood is boiling and my heart won't stay in my chest and like I might go off like an H-bomb. This is how I used to feel sometimes around Baz- like I wanted something from him so badly it was going to make me explode. I used to rationalize it- thinking that I just wanted his cool demeanor or his way with words or birthright. But it wasn't that. It was that I wanted him and I was afraid I could never have him. That I could never make someone like Baz Pitch want me.

But he does want me, doesn't he?

I get a crazy idea.

“Make me.” I say.

That makes him turn around. Tears are streaming down his face and I know he doesn’t want to do this, doesn't really want me to leave. And I can’t leave without putting up a fight. He might be scared, but I've got enough senseless, reckless bravery for the both of us. “What?” He says in a low voice.

“Tell me you don’t want to be with me. Then I’ll leave.” I say, jutting my chin out like I’m squaring up for a fight.

“Simon,” Baz says, tone exasperated. I step forward, so I’m only inches from his face. I'm eye level with his lips, and I want to reach out and grab them with mine, but I want him to lean in first. Like the first time. If he does this, I want it to be his choice.

“Make me,” I challenge again. "If you're going to break my heart, you're going to do it properly. Tell me you never want to see me again. Tell me you'd really rather pretend to be straight your whole life than be with me. Tell me you don't love me enough to do this."

"Fuck you." Baz says, his voice breaking and his eyes flashing. I’m afraid for a second that I’ve made a grave mistake about this. Maybe he’s going to knock me out and make the guards drag me out. Or worse, maybe he’s going to use his sharp tongue to tear me apart.

He doesn’t. He does what I hoped he would: he kisses me.

I don’t know if it’s an end or a beginning but it’s all fire.

The world is revolving slower on its axis, like it knows that I never want this moment to end. We take it excruciatingly slowly. I kiss every inch of his body like I'm trying to map it out in my brain. _Don't forget._ My brain says. _Just in case this is the last time, don't forget a minute of it._

So I don't. I remember the precise relieved noise he makes when I suck on his favorite spot on his neck. The feeling of bliss I get when he runs his fingers through my curls and massages my head. The gasps he makes when I start to take him apart with my fingers. The taste of our mingled tears when I finally, finally push inside of him.

"Simon," he whispers, his lips tickling my ear. " _Simon."_

I pull back to look into his storm grey eyes. To see his expression as our bodies merge together like two colliding stars. To watch the fire spread between us on this bed, two hedonistic arsonists burning one another over and over. The uncertainty of our future should hurt, but it's too right not to love this burning altar.

I've lived in a total of twenty-three houses in my life. Being inside of Baz Pitch is the only place I've ever felt truly at home.

I try to drag it out as long as possible, but our bodies can't take it forever. I finally let myself come when he does, feeling like my body has been filled to the brim with magic. We're so exhausted afterwards we can't keep our eyes from closing or find any words to say. I tentatively wrap my arms around him, and sigh contentedly when he doesn't pull away from me. I feel like jello, because Basilton Pitch has done magic on my body.

_No,_ I think, in the second before I fall asleep, _Basilton Pitch is magic._

* * *

I'm alone when I wake up. I don't want to say I panic, but, well- I panic.

_Please not again,_ I think desperately, as I walk though every room in his apartment. Then I do it again, but he's still not here. I'm thinking I might just say fuck it and start walking around the palace- damn the fucking consequences- when I hear my phone beep.

_Maybe it's Baz,_ I think hopefully, but it's just a reminder that I have texts from Penny and Agatha from yesterday. Forty six texts, to be exact. I read just the last few that they must have sent late last night, D.C. time.

**Group Message: White House Heathens**

**The Brains of the Operation (4:09 a.m.):** I still can't believe he did it

 **The Brains of the Operation (4:09 a.m.):** say what you will about Simon but that is adorable as fuck

 **IRL Cher Horowitz (4:10 a.m.):** rest assured I will keep saying what I will about Simon

 **IRL Cher Horowitz (4:11 a.m.):** he better not have used public funds or the FBI is going to open a damn inquiry

 **The Brains of the Operation (4:11 a.m.):** just say it's romantic and go

 **IRL Cher Horowitz (4:11 a.m.):** penny you understand that i am aromantic and that I have literally no interest in romance right

 **The Brains of the Operation (4:12 a.m.):** aggie I'm going to need you to pretend to care for Simon's sake

 **IRL Cher Horowitz (4:12 a.m.):** Simon tell me all the gory details of the sex and leave out the feelings talk

 **The Brains of the Operation (4:12 a.m.):** you would make an awful therapist

 **IRL Cher Horowitz (4:13 a.m.):** thanks

 **IRL Cher Horowitz (4:13 a.m.):** White Chicks is on cable wanna come to my room and watch it

 **The Brains of the Operation (4:12 a.m.):** oh fuck yeah see you in five

I'm typing a response to them when Baz walks in.

I drop my phone in surprise at the noise of the front door opening. Baz is carrying a paper bag and a cardboard coffee carrier for two. He's got an unreadable expression on, and when he sees me, his eyes flicker with emotion.

I thought I was panicked when he wasn't here, but now that he is- I’m full on freaking out.

“Is that a makeup breakfast or a breakup breakfast?” My mouth asks before my brain can stop it. "Like, have you got me breakfast in bed or is this supposed to soften the blow when you throw me out on my ass?"

For five seconds, Baz’s face is blank. Every second drags, until he smiles. "You're a mess," he says fondly, and relief and adoration falls out of me like a waterfall. I throw myself into his arms so hard I almost knock him over.

"Oof!" he huffs out a laugh. "Easy, Snow."

I don't take it any easier. I kiss him hard, challengingly, and he responds with as much force as I'm giving. The fire is back, all warm heat and no bittersweet burns.

We go back to his bedroom for so long, that the coffee and pastries go cold.

* * *

"You really can't ghost me again." I whisper against Baz's chest, "I'm serious this time. Three strikes and you're out."

Baz gives me a wicked smile, and I know we both know I'm not _really_ serious.

"Okay, at the very least, I'll be furious," I concede. "Please don't try it."

I think Baz can hear the worry in my voice, because he starts to pet my hair comfortingly, and whispers earnestly, "I'm sorry, baby."

"Well," I say with mock seriousness, "I guess you're just going to have to stay with me forever and make it up to me."

Baz pushes my shoulders back gently so he can look me in the eye. "Forever?" he says in a soft voice.

I want to laugh it off to protect myself. Because that's what I've been doing this entire time, trying to pretend this doesn't mean so much to me, not thinking about all the ways that Baz has my heart, never saying out loud how much I really want this.

"My mom was the one who convinced me to come here and get you back," I say instead. "She told me to come if it was forever. To come fight for it- you- if it's true love. I wasn't sure how you felt, but. Well. I am sure. About you. Totally."

It's quiet, but I'm not worried about the silence this time. He looks surprised- but it's a happy surprise. Like he's absorbing the shock of a lovely Christmas gift. It's hard to believe that he believes _I'm_ a gift to him. But, well. He said he loved me, didn't he?

"You didn't have to get me back." he whispers, kissing my cheek, at a mole I know he likes to target. "You've always had me."

I smile crookedly at him. "Since the moment you laid eyes on me, yeah?"

He blushes. "Don't let it get to your head."

"Too late," I say happily, and kiss him. This time it's not desperate; it's happy. Like this won't be the last time. Like we might have a lifetime of these soft kisses.

"So," I clarify once we pull apart, "You're my boyfriend now, yeah?"

"Yeah," Baz says softly. "I guess I am."

"Well, then I'm ready for my breakfast in bed."

He laughs, and when he comes back with my scones that he's warmed up in the microwave, he's the portrait of domestic bliss.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Baz is the “newsflash asshole! I’ve been in love with you the whole goddamn time!” meme n that’s a fact


	12. So This Is The Gang Now, Huh?

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Baz and Simon's friend groups get together in New York City.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> wow I've had such a week that I genuinely don't know how I got this chapter done. Sheer force of will, I suppose. And the encouragement of all your kind words on the last chapter.
> 
> Enjoy!
> 
> P.S. forgive me father for I have sinned this has some Smut with a capital S  
> P.S.S. No regrets
> 
> TW: character outing

**Baz**

“If this plane crashes because you can’t go eight hours without talking to your boyfriend,” Dev says, “I swear on the blood of our ancestors I will make your afterlife a living hell.”

“You’ll make hell a living hell?” I ask him, raising a singular eyebrow. “A bit on the nose, don’t you think? You know, a hat on a hat.”

“Stop texting Simon Snow for one minute of your goddamn life. One minute, Baz.”

“I _wasn’t_ texting him.” I insist, and I’m not lying, technically. I wasn’t actively texting him, I was just looking over our last messages. 

**American Idiot❤️ (12:10 p.m.):** if you could have any superpower what would it be

 **Me (12:11 p.m.):** Why don’t you ever text me anything normal?

 **American Idiot❤️ (12:11 p.m.):** answer the question

 **Me (12:12 p.m.):** I suppose invisibility would be nice.

 **American Idiot❤️ (12:13 p.m.):** I would choose teleportation

 **American Idiot❤️ (12:13 p.m.):** ya know

 **American Idiot❤️ (12:14 p.m.):** so I could be with you whenever I wanted

 **Me (12:14 p.m.):** Snow, I’m getting on a plane to see you now. I’ll be there tonight. 

**American Idiot❤️ (12:15 p.m.):** too long

 **Me (12:15 p.m.):** You’re unbearably romantic. 

**American Idiot❤️ (12:16 p.m.):** “ur eyes are my favorite color” -u on the phone last week

 **Me (12:16 p.m.):** I don’t recall saying that.

 **American Idiot❤️ (12:16 p.m.):** hmmmm im not sure if I'll be able to forget it

 **American Idiot❤️ (12:16 p.m.):** maybe I’ll get the NSA to get the phone records

 **Me (12:17 p.m.):** You’re so annoying.

 **American Idiot❤️ (12:17 p.m.):** u love me

 **Me (12:18 p.m.):** Yeah, I suppose I do.

 **Me (12:19 p.m.):** I’m getting on the plane now. I’ll see you soon. xo

 **American Idiot❤️ (12:19 p.m.):** cool I got cherry flavored lube 

I’m positive I’ll never be able to fall out of love with this spectacular idiot. 

Though, maybe I won’t have to. He seems to love me back.

It's weird, believing it. That he really loves me. No matter how often he says it, it still feels foreign. He knows near everything about me- all my broken pieces and shattered truths and ugly nightmares and awful secrets- and he still somehow says he loves me. 

It feels too good to be true. Like I might wake up from this dream at any minute. Though, if it is one, I suppose I should just enjoy it while it lasts. 

“Yo, Bitch. You’re doing it again.” Dev says.

“Doing what?” I snap.

“Thinking about Simon,” Phillipa says from the front of the plane carriage. She’s been up there playing cards with Niall, and I hadn’t realized they’d been listening to our conversation. “Though, love,” she says to Dev. “He’s always doing that, so it doesn’t really need to be called out every time.” 

“Yeah, just when it gets out of hand. Like today,” Niall says.

“We’re landing in New York City in less than two hours. Think you can keep it in your pants for that long?” Dev teases me. 

“Shut up,” I say, blushing furiously. I pocket my phone so Dev’s not tempted to read the messages. I would _really_ never live that down.

“I’m ready to get sloshed,” Niall says. “Midterms have been _killer_.”

“You think uni is bad?” Phillipa says, flipping her red hair over her shoulder. “Try Law school.”

“Lips, you sound pretentious when you say it like that,” Dev says to her, in his blunt way. 

“Ok, fair,” Phillipa says, pulling out a compact mirror to fix her hair, though I don't see a strand out of place, “but no worse than when you correct someone’s pronunciation of ‘GIF’.” 

I laugh. I honestly didn’t like Phillipa much when we were younger. She talks far too much for my taste and there are times I want to tell her to shut up. But when she got laryngitis last year, I realized that I actually missed her constant chatter. So, I suppose I like her quite a bit, even if she is a bit annoying. Plus, she's not afraid to call Dev on his shit, and I have to give credit where credit is due.

"Yeah, Dev." I agree with Phillipa. "Everyone hates when people do that."

Dev looks betrayed. "Baz, you're a grammar nerd. You _know_ it's pronounced gif." 

"Yeah, well, I'm also socially aware, and the internet has decided that it's jif now." 

"Fiona agrees with me." Dev counters. 

"Fiona doesn't even know how to use Tumblr, so her opinion is effectively irrelevant." I say, "And she's not here, thank God." 

"I love when Fiona's around," Phillipa says, "She makes everything more interesting."

"She makes everything messier is what she does." I mutter, relieved she couldn't tag along this weekend. She lacks the subtlety needed for the situation. Luckily, Fiona had already promised to take care of Mordelia at one of Daphne's charity events. Some garden party for sick children or abused puppies or something or another that's very Daphne. 

My father wanted me there as well, but I told him I had long standing plans to make an appearance with Simon. I blamed it on Possibelf- who, mercifully lied and said this has been planned since the wedding- but I don't think my father bought it. It's not terribly convincing that I'm going to New York for only one night for press reasons. He's getting increasingly frustrated with the frequency in which I find excuses to see Simon. I think he's finding it difficult to pretend to believe that Simon and I are just mates. I mean, if everyone else in my life- Fiona, Dev, Niall, Phillipa, Mordelia, and even Ms. Possibelf- are to be believed, my infatuation is terribly obvious.

I've refused to let my father and Simon meet. Simon, with his nervous stammers and tell-tale blushes, would give the game up in less than a minute. I don't know what my father will do if he gets confirmation that I'm dating a man. Our unspoken agreement was always to pretend otherwise. I know he had his eye on Phillipa for me for a while, until she and Dev got together. I've never fought it when he's spoken about setting me up with girls- I've just avoided it. "Dated" Keris to keep up appearances. Claimed I have to focus on my studies this year instead of meeting prospects. Said I was just waiting for the right woman to come along. All things we both knew were lies. He hasn't seemed to mind that my attempts at heterosexuality have been, at best, half-hearted. He's under the impression that I'll eventually do my royal duty: marry some pretty European socialite and make heirs. 

Simon complicates that. 

How will I ever pretend that I could love a woman after I know what it's like to be loved by a man? _Simon_ , of all people, a man who is so beautiful and earnest and loyal, who shows me so clearly what love is supposed to feel like? 

But what kind of life can we lead if we can only exist in secret?

I don't know. I don't know what our future is going to be. If we can even have one. But I can't let him go. I've already tried, and it's just too hard. I can't say no to him, and I don't want to.

I don't know where that leaves us. 

I just know I can't quit him now. 

* * *

Simon's gives me his most charming smile when I step down the plane ramp, and screams "Baz!"

"He's just as obnoxious as you are," Phillipa comments with a smile, but I don't even care that I'm being teased right now.

Because it's been nineteen days since I've seen him, and he's literally the sun. He's always been the sun. This fact used to infuriate me, because I was always getting burned by his warmth. But now it's like benevolent lightning when I look at him. He's so beautiful, and it doesn't hurt, because he's _mine_. 

New York summer is in full swing, so it's hot and humid, and he's got a bead of sweat dripping down his temple, and I think about licking it off when he throws himself into my arms. 

"Hello, love," I whisper against his ear, and I feel him smile against my neck. "Tone it down a little. We're in public." I mean, it's a private airstrip. But better safe than sorry, I think, even as my heart protests loudly in my chest when he quickly steps away from me. 

"I'm sorry," he says sheepishly. He looks worried that I'm about to get upset with him, so I give him a private smile to communicate that I didn't really mind it. 

"Hi-ya, Baz!" I hear Micah greet, stepping towards us at a brisk walk. I didn't talk to him much at Agatha's Halloween party- I only had eyes for Simon that night- but he seemed like a cheery bloke, with his wide smile and deep dimples. "Thanks for agreeing to come to the art show tonight! Everyone's thrilled."

I quite literally forgot that the point of this trip was to go to an NYU art gallery for Penelope's boyfriend. I was just so excited to see Simon. I smile politely, and say "of course." I hear Dev's huff of laughter, and I think he knows I couldn't care less about some university show. Micah doesn't seem to mind, just smiles amicably. Good man. 

As we walk to the car, Phillipa's talking Simon's ear off. Telling him about how _the flight was so long_ and asking him _do you think New York is too hot as well?_ and letting him know that _oh, I forgive you for the wedding, by the way!_ Simon looks like he's about to have a heart attack when she says that, but before he can apologize, she's launching into _have you ever summered in Monaco? It's absolutely lovely._ He sends me a ' _please_ _help_ ' look that I just smirk at. Everyone should have to be subjected to a Phillipa interrogation at least once in their life. It's character-building. 

I decide to take more care to be friendly with Micah this time around, and ask him, "So, you go to NYU?" I was a bit surprised to learn that Penelope had been dating an easy-going, artist type- I expected her to be with someone as diplomatically sharp and academically driven as her- but when my simple question launches him into a monologue about surrealism and Michael Cheval's influence on his pieces for tonight and other art lingo that almost goes over my head, I see how the two of them got together. 

We meet Penelope and Agatha at the art show, and they both look delighted to see me. They both whisper in my ear when they pull me in for a hug: Penelope to tell me she's glad I'm here and that she's missed me, and Agatha to tell me that if I ever leave Simon in the middle of the night again she'll castrate me, before she casually turns to Phillipa to ask her where she got her skirt. All in all, what I expected from the two of them. 

Walking into the Gallatin art gallery, I'm not surprised to see that we turn heads. The art director comes up to thank me for my generous contribution- I send Possibelf a grateful glance for her planning- before we make our way to check out Micah's work. He's painted a series of breathtaking surreal works- a close up of Penelope with eyes like the Milky Way and her brain exposed to show colorful wires, two women that look like Alice in Wonderland and the Queen of Hearts engaged in a passionate kiss surrounded by an army of fighting playing cards, an elderly man who seems to be painting a younger version of himself who's painting a younger version of himself and so on. Best of all, there's a painting of a man who looks just like Snow, with a silver sword in his hand, red cartoon wings, and blood on his cheek, fighting a chimera in a garden maze. 

"Bloody fucking perfect," I say in a low voice with an amused laugh with my eyes glued on the painting of Simon.

Simon blushes self-consciously, "Shut up."

"This is clearly about your do-gooder complex." I tease, pointing at the sword in his hand. I look over at Micah to make sure I'm not being rude and wildly misinterpreting his art, but he's smiling, so I continue. "Simon Snow, the storybook hero."

Micah starts to say, "well, actually, I painted it because-", but Simon interrupts him with, "C'mon, let's go look at the other paintings."

I want to ask Micah to finish his sentence, but Snow's grabbed my arm and is dragging me over to a Picasso wannabe's exhibit. 

It's the Louvre all over again. Explaining art to Snow while he makes silly commentary. Wanting desperately to hold his hand. Wishing I could tell him that he's much prettier than any of the art here. 

Though, I suppose I can do the last one, later, when we're alone. 

It occurs to me that he might have considered the Louvre in Paris to be a date. The thought is thrilling- almost as wonderful as knowing _this_ is most certainly a date, even if no one can know. To the outsider, we're just two mates platonically appreciating art together, but I know better when Simon keeps casually brushing up against me, subtly rubbing his thumb on the inside of my wrist. He gives me a playful smile every time he does it, so I know it's no accident. 

After a while at the gallery, it starts to wind down, and we head to some eighteen and over Brooklyn club for an afterparty. I feel drunk off Simon Snow and the champagne we have in the car. When we get there, I have to force myself not to put my arm around his waist. 

We walk into what looks like a large warehouse, except with blue lighting and rows of high tables, and there's a hundred or two NYU students dancing to some live indie band.

"Let's go upstairs," Micah suggests, "We got a private room for everyone who was in the gallery."

We agree, and I'm thankful, because I hate indie music. Micah leads us to a room with strobe lights and red booths and a stage with a girl singing Since U Been Gone by Kelly Clarkson with frankly impressive earnesty. 

"Yay, karaoke!" Agatha says pleasantly. 

"I told you we couldn't go places with karaoke if she's here," Penny mutters mutinously to Micah.

" _I_ didn't plan this party," Micah defends, throwing his hands up. Penny just rolls her eyes. 

"I'm doing Party in the U.S.A.," Agatha says confidently, and Penny looks at me in a way that's reminiscent of Jim's camera look on the Office. I stifle laughter as we make our way to the back of the room. 

When we slide into a booth, Simon pulls out a flask and hands it to me under the table.

"Gross," I say when I taste that it's tequila. 

"Beggars can't be choosers, Baz." he teases. 

"I don't beg." I say, and Simon tries to raise an eyebrow. He ends up looking less sexually suggestive and more ridiculously silly. I love it. 

The night passes pleasantly, our groups melding together more seamlessly than I could have ever predicted. Niall, Agatha, and Phillipa are all talking pop culture like they're majoring in it, Dev and Penelope bond over their mutual love of Hamilton, and Micah's embarrassing Simon with stories from high school. 

"So, Simon makes us all sign up for Pokemon Go," Micah says with a bright grin, "and all summer, he's like, _dragging_ us around. He would get genuinely upset when there was a Pokemon nearby, but Penny and I were busy. He would like, blow up on us until we agreed to go. I was like, 'bro, I'm only in D.C. for two weeks until I have to go back to Texas, shouldn't I be doing something other than Pokemon Go?'. And he was like 'Micah, it's a Charmander'."

"Charmanders are really rare," Simon says defensively, and Micah laughs.

"Like that! He would pout if we wouldn't go with him. He was acting like it was life or death. Like he was Harry Potter and he had to destroy all the horcruxes or Voldemort would destroy the world. That was the level of importance he gave Pokemon Go."

"Simon Snow, the Chosen One." I tease.

"Yes! The Chosen One!" Micah exclaims, a little tipsily. "That's what we called him! That's why I painted that portrait of him with the sword!"

I throw back my head and laugh and say to him, "you'd be the worst chosen one who was ever chosen." 

Simon punches my arm and pouts. "Prick."

"You look the part, though," I smile wolfishly at him, and he rolls his eyes. 

"I got an embarrassing Baz story, too." Dev pipes in. 

"No you don't," I snap, though I know he's got dozens.

Snow's face lights up. "Tell me," he demands.

"Okay, so Baz is fifteen, and his aunt and I are teaching him how to drive in the countryside, and-"

"No." I say, knowing how this story ends, but Dev keeps going.

"And we have him pull over to get some petrol. Fiona is like, 'you fill up the tank, and Dev and I will get some coffee', right?"

"I would like to point out that I was fifteen, and no one warned me-"

"And we get back, and Baz is _filling up the car with the engine still running._ And he's _smoking a cigarette._ "

Simon audibly gasps, and goes,"Baz, you didn't…"

"I didn't know that it was dangerous!" I try to defend myself. 

"Fiona was so mad at him. I've never seen her like that. She wouldn't let him drive anymore, and she even made him sit in the back seat for _weeks._ What did she say to you about it, Baz?"

"I don't remember," I mutter, even though I bloody well do remember.

"Oh yeah!" Dev says, snapping his fingers. " _Front seats are for people who aren't bloody numpties."_

Snow howls with laughter and I pout. "No one _told_ me-"

"It's common sense, Baz!" he says, and I want to argue, but I'm interrupted by Agatha Wellbelove screeching. 

"Oh hell yes!" she says, and I hear Billy Joel's "oh, oh, oh…"s start playing over the loudspeakers. Niall is up on stage by himself with his shirt unbuttoned to his navel, swinging his hips carelessly. 

"Uptown girl, she's been living in her uptown world…" Niall starts singing, and I see he accomplished his goal of getting sozzled. He's absolutely legless up there, but girls are screaming, because he's actually still singing quite well. 

I roll my eyes. "Typical," I say at his smooth singing voice. He's belting out the lyrics, and I see several people in the crowd swooning, including Agatha Wellbelove, who's looking at him like she might jump him. 

Agatha confirms my suspicions when she yells, "Yep, I'm going to sleep with him!" in Simon's ear. He throws his head back and laughs, and then turns to me with a mischievous glint in his eyes. 

"You should go up and sing." He says in a low voice. 

"Oh, no, no, no. No way," I laugh. 

"Baz doesn't sing. He's an uptight prat!" Phillipa says to him, matter-of-fact, before turning back to watch Niall as he points at Agatha and sings "she's my uptown girl!" 

Simon still has a playful look in his eyes. "Really?" He says, leaning in real close and placing his hand on my upper thigh. I hold back a whimper. "I can't persuade you?" 

So, that's how I end up on the karaoke stage, after Simon Snow is done blowing me in a handicapped loo and I've taken another tequila shot.

As I hear the opening instrumentals of Greased Lightnin', I think of Simon's voice saying, _thinking of you in your Halloween costume turns me on,_ and get really into it. I can hear girls' high-pitched screams, but I'm only looking at Simon, whose smile is positively feral. It gives me an uncharacteristic bout of confidence, and I start to do the choreography along with the song. Simon's jaw is on the floor when I thrust my hips forward, and I can't finish my line because I'm laughing so hard. 

"I'm so glad Possibelf confiscated cell phones for that," I say as I sit back down after the song, my embarrassment catching up with me a bit as I slide into the booth and the whole room is still screaming.

"She didn't confiscate my second phone," Agatha says, shaking a rose gold iPhone in her hands. 

_Who the fuck has a second phone?_ I think, and narrow my eyes at her. "Delete that right now," I demand.

"Agatha, I will do literally anything if you send me that." Simon says, his eyes bright with an enthusiastic nod.

"Wellbelove, I will kill you if you send that to Snow." I say.

"Baaaz." He whines. "I need that memory."

"Keep it in your brain," I snap, and he grins. 

"Oh, I will. I can't believe you did that," he says, leaning into me. His voice warms me so much that I decide to just risk it and put my arm around his shoulders in what I hope looks like an innocently friendly gesture.

"Well, you're persuasive." I whisper in his ear. "I guess I'm just hopelessly devoted to you."

Simon's returning grin is so bright, and I feel like I'm floating just looking at him. "Oh, honey," he sings softly, "You're the one that I want." 

"Okay, this is getting gross." Agatha announces, and I blush at the realization that she was still listening to our conversation. "Let's go leave before someone starts a scene."

"Damn, I love scenes." Niall says cheekily. 

"Well, let's start one back at the hotel then." Agatha says suggestively, and Niall practically falls out of the booth in his enthusiasm. 

The drive to the hotel can't take more than a half hour, but it feels much longer since Simon spends the whole ride rubbing circles into my inner thigh. When we get to our floor, we all go our separate ways, and I'm so anxious to get into the room and get onto Simon that the machine declines my card three times because I'm taking it out too fast. 

"Slow down, Pitch," he says, stifling laughter, and takes the key from me, putting it in slowly so that the door glows green instead of red. I basically shove him past the threshold and slam the door shut, pushing him against the wall and kissing him roughly. 

It's messy and desperate and passionate. I lift him by his arse and throw him on the bed, grinding up against him enthusiastically. 

"You're a work of art," I pant into his ear and he growls.

He rolls over on top of me and demands in a low sultry voice, "clothes off now," and I happily begin to oblige as he rips his own clothing off. I've just finished unbuttoning my trousers, relieving myself of the pressure against the jeans, and Simon's already naked, looking at me with wild eyes. " _Now_ ," he demands, tearing my shirt buttons off in his desperation to get me undressed.

"Careful with my clothing, you impatient wanker," I try to chastise him, but it's severely undercut by the fact that my voice is dripping with arousal and I've just gotten impossibly harder under him. He starts dry humping me as he sucks at my neck, and I'm already leaking pre-cum, even though he hasn't even started prepping me yet. "Where's the lube?" I ask, before I manage to come from just this.

He reaches over and yanks the bedside table open, grabbing a bottle of, as promised, cherry flavored lube. He quickly pours some onto his hand and grabs my cock, and I jerk up into his hand. 

"You like that?" he asks, rubbing his thumb along the head, and I moan in agreement. "You can do better than that," he says. I can't help jerking my hips up in my desperation for more sensation, but he's not moving his hand. 

"Snow," I whine, but he still doesn't fucking _move._

"I want to try something," he says. 

"Yes, okay, try something." I pant, my voice tinged with annoyance. 

"Just- tell me if you don't like it, okay?" he says, looking nervous.

"Just _touch me_ ," I insist, so he does, rubbing his lubed finger on my arsehole as he starts to suck my dick. 

I'm writhing on the bed, jerking myself up into his mouth, when he stops _again._

"Jesus fucking Christ, Snow. Will you get on with it-" I start to complain, but I'm cut off when Simon starts licking my arsehole. "Oh _fuck_!" 

Simon Snow is giving me a rim job.

_Simon Snow_ is giving me a _rim job._

The cherry flavored lube is making more and more sense now.

God, I am living a charmed life. 

He moans on me, and I can't hold back from screaming his name. It's so fucking good, and I'm pushing into his face and onto his fingers in my desperation for _more, more, more_. I'm practically crying when he's got three fingers inside me, mercilessly rubbing against my prostate over and over.

"Fuck me," I whine when it gets to be too much and not enough all at once.

"Ready?" Simon says, looking smug.

"Yes, yes, now. And I want to be on top." I say, trying to sound dominating and confident and like I know what I'm doing. Though, I _don't,_ not exactly, and he knows that, knows that there's never been anyone but him, and we've never done it like this before. But he nods so enthusiastically, like I'm offering him the world on a silver platter, and stammers out "ye-yeah, yes, yes, let's do that," and the look in his eyes makes my self-conscious nerves evaporate. 

I get on top of him, line myself up, and decide to tease him a little. "You ready?" I ask, feigning innocence, with my head cocked slightly to the left.

"Yes, yes," Simon says vigorously, trying to push up, but I've got my hands on his hips. 

"You sure?" I ask, sinking a little so only a centimeter of the tip is inside me. 

"Yes, yes, yes, yes, Baz, yes-" he begs, and, satisfied, I push down onto him quickly, taking him all at once.

_I don't know how it can be so good every time_ , I think as I ride him. _It's only getting better._

It's the dirtiest I've ever seen him, all shameless moaning and desperate thrusting. But there's still so much love in the way he rubs circles into my hip bones and says my name like a sacred prayer. There's so much reverence in his expression that I feel like he'd start a war or a new religion for me right now. I'm pretty sure I'm witnessing the second coming of Christ when he starts jerking me off, and I'm cumming all over his chest in no time at all. He's still rutting up into me after my orgasm, trying to finish himself off in me with his face screwed up in tortured pleasure. I'm so sensitive but it's still so so so good. When he comes he says _I love you_ and it makes me want to laugh or cry at the sheer joy of it all. I fuck him harder as he finishes, riding out his orgasm until tears leak down his face. When I collapse beside him, I feel boneless. 

"I don't think you're human," Simon says in a hoarse voice.

"What?" I say, laughing.

"You're too good to be real. I think you really are a vampire after all, and you've got me in some sort of thrall."

I snort unattractively and he smiles at it. 

"You're fucking crazy," I say.

"Yeah," he says, smiling. "Crazy for you."

I fall asleep with a smile on my face and Simon Snow in my arms. 

* * *

"You're telling me Baz did _karaoke_ and I _missed it,"_ Mordelia says later in the week, sounding scandalized. 

"Yep, kiddo." Dev says with a smile. "To Greased Lightnin', no less."

Mordelia makes an indignant noise. 

"I think Agatha sent it to Simon and he made her delete it. Simon won't let anyone see it. I think he's too scared of what Baz will do to him."

"As he should be," I say solemnly. 

"I wish I had been there," Mordelia complains. 

"Mordelia, you're nine. You couldn't have gotten into a New York club."

"You're missing the point, which is that you will be doing karaoke at my birthday party this year."

"When did _that_ become the point? I absolutely am not doing that."

"You absolutely _are-"_ Mordelia starts, before we're interrupted by simultaneous _pings_ on our cell phones. 

"Do you have a Simon Snow alert on your phone too? Was it Fiona's idea?" I ask Mordelia, recognizing the Google alert noise _again._ "It's weird how invested you two are in-"

"Baz-" Mordelia interrupts, going pale. My heart skips a beat at the uncharacteristic fear in her voice.

"What?" I say, scrambling to get my cell phone, which is on the opposite side of the room. "Is it about his time in foster care again? I swear to God, I will-"

I stop talking, because when I look at my phone, the headline isn't ' _Simon Snow: Police Reports Released'_ or _'Simon Snow: Foster Parents Tell All!'._

  
It's ' _Simon Snow and Baz Pitch Dating!?'._

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I'm the worst, ending on a cliffhanger when I don't know how long the next chapter will take. I'm sorry I love this story but law school is HARD okay
> 
> i heart you all for reading though see u as soon as possible xo
> 
> (Also that Baz story of him putting gas in his car when the engine was on- that is something I did for MONTHS when I was sixteen until a friend of mine was like WHAT THE FUCK ARE YOU D O I N G. I just told my mom last week and she lost it lol)


	13. Sería Una Mentira, Porque No Sería Él.

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Simon deals with the press catching wind of his and Baz's relationship.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Hi loves! I'm sorry I know I took for-fucking-ever on this, and after a cliffhanger no less, and that was savage of me. I really am pushing to finish this story asap but it just can't be a priority before school, so I'm trying to let myself write for only thirty minutes a day so I don't neglect my hours and hours of law school homework. So this chapter came together slowly, but miraculously it still came together. And I am NOT abandoning this story, don't worry. I hope you all enjoy!!
> 
> (also, for those who haven't read RW&RB, the title translates to 'it would be a lie, because it wouldn't be him'. The character who is my Simon in this is Mexican American and fluent in Spanish, and though I didn't make Simon a spanish-speaker, I still wanted to use the title, because it's a truly iconic line and as a Latinx myself, I just love it.)
> 
> TW: character outing

**Simon**

"The trick is to add cinnamon," Ebb tells me.

"So it's bread, but it's also a dessert," I agree. "Also, we should add extra butter."

Ebb smiles indulgently at me. "Of course we should," she says, grabbing the tub from the fridge. "Who eats banana bread without butter?"

"Baz would. You know what he said to me the other week? He said that he thinks that butter and margarine tastes the same. Do you think he hit his head as a child? I feel like that's the only explanation."

Ebb laughs. Penny has made it clear that my Baz quota is still in place now that we're boyfriends. ' _If anything, Simon, it's getting harder and not easier to enforce. I don't want a play-by-play on what Baz is wearing every single day. It's weird enough that the information is on the forefront of your brain, it doesn't need to be in mine."_ To be fair, my boyfriend is extremely fashionable, and I just like to point that out every now and then. Or maybe more than every now and then- considering even Agatha didn't want to know about that one time Baz sent me a Snapchat (an app I had to bribe him into downloading) wearing black ripped jeans. (Baz! In black ripped jeans!!!). But Ebb doesn't mind if I talk about how hot and stupid and lovely and annoying and perfect my boyfriend is. 

I’m about to continue prattling on about Baz’s pastry preferences, when Agatha comes into the kitchen. I'm surprised to see her- Agatha does _not_ cook, and has stated on multiple occasions that she has no business being in here. I open my mouth to ask if she'd like a banana bread muffin when we're done, but she cuts me off.

"Why aren't you answering your phone?" she demands, and I just now realize how uncharacteristically frenzied she looks. Her hair has been thrown in a messy ponytail, and she's still in her pajamas and fuzzy slippers.

I pull my iPhone out of my pocket, and see that the screen is black. I had forgotten to charge it after I had gotten off the phone with Baz- late night for me, early morning for him. "It's dead. Why? Did I forget we had plans or something?" I ask, though if it were that, she'd be wearing heels and makeup. "Is something wrong?"

Dread flashes across Agatha's face. "You need to see this. Now. Which means I have to be the one to show you. Um, okay," Aggie says uncomfortably and my heart sinks. Agatha is all poise and wit- except when it comes to dealing with emotional stuff. That's when she gets like this- her voice an octave too high and an atypical self-conscious hunch to her shoulders. She doesn't like being the bearer of bad news- that's Penny's job. But Penny's in New York with Micah, so whatever it is must be urgent- because she's pulling out her phone to show me something herself.

My stomach drops to the floor when I see the headline: _Simon Snow and Baz Pitch Dating!?_

"Oh, shit!" I exclaim, ripping Aggie's phone out of her hands. The story has a picture of me and Baz at the White House Dinner- the one we took for the press, before we made out under the portrait of Alexander Hamilton. Baz looks radiant, and I look a little awkward. I scroll down to read the rest of the article. 

_At first, we thought the two sons of world leaders were feuding after Cake-Gate, but it turned out the two of them are actually the best of friends. The internet has loved watching their bromance upfold- from morning talk show appearances to volunteering together at St. Jude's Hospital to last year's U.N. conference, the two have been spending time together extensively since Dev Grimm and Phillipa Stainton's wedding._

_But are they more than just friends?_

_Sources say that the two have been jet-setting back and forth every other weekend to spend time together. Not because they're friends, but because they're boyfriends!_

_Allegedly, they last spent some time together in New York for an NYU Art Show, where Prince Basilton Grimm-Pitch was Simon Snow's date. They apparently went out to Brooklyn Bazaar with some other familiar faces: Agatha Wellbelove, Penelope Bunce, Penelope's boyfriend Micah Hernandez, Dev Grimm, Phillipa Stainton, and Niall Rothschild. The group was spotted laughing together all night, where sources allege they were sitting right beside one another all night!_

_The pair retreated to the Greenwich Hotel afterwards, where they're thought to have stayed in the same room. Below is hotel footage of the gang late at night after the party. Don't the two boys look absolutely smitten?_

I click on that video quicker than anything in my life, and let out an obscene curse when I have to watch a sixty second advertisement on the new Quentin Tarantino movie. I spend the whole time wondering what video they could possibly have. I'm tapping my foot impatiently until finally, _finally,_ the video plays. 

It's grainy, but it's us. All of us in the hotel elevator. It's not as bad as I thought it might be- Baz and I are close, hip to hip, but I'm glad to see we're not hung all over one another. At the end, Baz turns to whisper something in my ear- if I remember correctly, he had sung a bit of Summer Nights in my ear- and I throw my head back in unselfconscious laughter. The video catches us knocking shoulders before we walk off the elevator. 

Fuck, I look in love. Can everyone tell? According to the gossip magazine journalist, _yes._ I look up to Agatha, and she looks they way she does when she's thinking very hard, bright darting eyes and an electric energy. 

"Okay, okay," Agatha says. "This isn't as bad as it could be. I mean, they don't really have concrete proof, now do they? It's speculation. We just need to throw them off the scent. We just say..." she waves her hand like she's coming up with the words to explain away the suggestiveness of the video. She suddenly stills and her face focuses, the way she does when she gets an idea, and says, "Play it again."

I do, and she watches the video nodding furiously as she does. 

"Look, look. I'm standing next to Baz. You can see at the beginning that I lean over to say something to him. It's perfect, this will work."

"Okay…" I say not seeing how them talking in the video is relevant or why it will work. I'm about to ask, but she cuts me off with a hand as she's pulling out her phone. She opens her photo album app, and scrolls past this week's selfies of herself before she finds a photo of her and Baz. 

It was taken at the Brooklyn Bazaar. It's a selfie, and she's kissing Baz on the cheek. "What if it wasn't your room Baz was going to? What if it were mine?"

"If it were yours…?" I start, before I see where she is going with this. I look closely at the photo- they're drunk, so they look carefree, happy, smiley. They look. Fuck. They look like they could be a couple. A fucking gorgeous one at that. "Oh." I say, trying to sound like the idea isn't nauseating to me. 

Agatha says, talking very quickly, "This is perfect. We leak this photo, and then everyone will stop looking at you and look at me. I mean, we're _all_ in the elevator, aren't we? They were right about the two of you, but not so obviously right we can't use a diversion. It'll be okay. Do you think Baz would-" I cut her off when she mentions Baz.

_Baz._ He must be losing it.

"Give me your phone right now," I demand, harsher than I mean to in my near hysteria. She holds it out without a word. 

"Where's Baz's number?" I ask, scrolling through her thousands of contacts.

"Oh, he's under 'Simon's boytoy'," she says casually. 

"God, Aggie. What if someone had stolen your phone and saw that?"

"Please, Simon. Like that would ever happen to me," she says with a confident flip of her hair. She has a point. It's unlike her to part with her cell phone, especially without a fight. She usually only gives up her main 'professional' phone when someone, like Baz's bodyguards at the Brooklyn Bazaar, demands it. She's probably only given me her real phone now because she could hear the urgency in my voice. So I just roll my eyes in response, and then find Baz's contact and press the call button.

One ring. Two rings. Three rings.

"C'mon, c'mon," I mutter, my heartbeat loud in my ears. 

"Hello?" a posh deep voice finally answers on the fifth ring, but it's not Baz.

"Where's Baz?" I ask forcefully.

"Simon? Is that you?" Dev says. "Oh, thank God. He was trying to call you."

My stomach drops. The article was only published half an hour ago, so he must have seen it pretty quickly if he's already been trying to call. He's surely worried himself sick by now. I remind myself to never let my phone die again. "Let me talk to him right now."

"Calm down, loverboy," Dev says awkwardly. I think he's trying to be funny but it doesn't come across well in his obvious tension. 

I hear shuffling and then the right posh voice on the phone. "Hello?" Baz says, his voice weak and emotionless, and I let out the breath I was holding, relieved to hear his voice, even in this shitty situation. 

"I'm so sorry for not answering, my phone is dead and I was baking with Ebb and I didn't even see it until Agatha came to find me and I didn't know what was going on, I was just here making muffins, and- did I say my phone was dead?- I just-"

"Simon," Baz interrupts, "Breathe."

I take an exaggerated inhale, trying to slow down my heartbeats, which have been steadily rising since Agatha came into the kitchen.

When my voice doesn't feel as shaky, I finally say, "Baz, I just read it and I'm so sorry and I don't know how this happened but, well, we have a plan."

“A plan?” He says, an ounce of emotion making its way into his previously flat voice. My heart beat slows slightly. 

“Agatha has a picture of you and her that looks. Well. It looks like the two of you could be, uh.” I stop talking, not really wanting to say it. I'm not sure how he'll react. 

Baz, sharp as always, picks up on our plan instantly. “The kissing one. If she posts it, it’ll look like we were the ones going to a hotel room together.”

“Yeah,” I say, struggling to sound like I think this is a good idea, even though I’m the one who suggested it. "I mean, Agatha thinks that will be, like, a good diversion."

“People will believe it. The straight couple angle is the most likely one in people’s eyes. Plus, my father will love it.” His voice is business-like, and it makes me flinch. I’d never tell him, but he sounds a little like Malcolm Grimm when he gets like this.

“Agatha can post it on Instagram,” I say, a slight question in my voice as I catch Aggie’s eye. She nods loyally. "We don't even have to like, officially confirm or deny. Just, you know. Heavily suggest."

"The media will connect the dots themselves. They always do." Baz responds tiredly.

“Ye-yeah," I say, feeling uncomfortable at his tone, "She can do it right now before the real story gets too big.”

I hear Baz sigh softly, so low I’m not sure I haven’t imagined it. “Okay. Let’s do it.”

* * *

_The number one rule of being a public figure is don't read the comments,_ I say to myself as I open up Twitter.

It’s been two hours since Agatha posted the photo of her and Baz, with just a red heart as the caption, and #Pitchbelove is already trending worldwide. 

I've never considered myself a masochist, but I must be, at least a little, because I click on the hashtag without hesitation. 

**@buzzfeed** Click the link here for a full timeline of #Pitchbelove's epic romance!

 **@bettynoyes** omg omg Agatha Wellbelove is dating Prince Baz I am so JEALOUS

 **@geminibitch22** Agatha Wellbelove and Baz Pitch are the hottest fucking couple I can't. The future king of England and a member of the White House Trio??? iconic

 **@kendra_may_** uhhh can i get a prince too???

 **@messybi** I can't decide which one of them I'm more attracted to tbh they're both so FINE

 **@arianator7** [gif set] look how cute they are together i ship it 

The tweets go on and on. 

I tell myself that this is what we meant to happen, and that this is a good thing, and that I shouldn't be upset. That this lie is necessary to avoid outing us. Baz isn't ready. Mom is up for re-election in November, and the race is a close one. Now is not the time to be openly in a relationship with the prince of fucking England. 

But seeing these comments brings out an ugly fury in me, because I wish these comments could be about me and Baz instead. The only real difference in Baz dating Agatha and Baz dating me is gender. Everyone thinks it's so damn adorable that they're together because they think they're straight. It's so goddamn unfair. 

“You have your I’m-ready-to-slay-a-dragon face on,” Penny says from my doorway, interrupting my self-pitying thoughts. 

“Shouldn’t you be in New York?” I ask, shocked to see her. She raises her eyebrows at me.

"While you're here panicking? I don't think so."

"How did you know I was panicking?" I didn't answer any of her phone calls, something I feel a little guilty about now that she's standing in front of me.

"Because I know you, Simon," she says, plucking my phone out of my hands. "No Instagram for you. It'll just drive you crazy."

"I wasn't on Instagram." 

She gives me a shrewd once-over. "Then, no Twitter for you."

I sigh dramatically, though I know she's right. 

I had just gotten to a post about the two of them dancing at Dev's wedding, so it was a good time for Penny to force the phone out of my hands. I just want to scream from the rooftops that Baz is _mine,_ not Agatha's. But that would defeat the whole purpose of this charade. It's dumb to be jealous. I know it isn’t _real._ But just looking at that photo of the two of them, Baz's dark aesthetic and Agatha's light beauty, looking so fucking enchanting, makes me want to scream into the abyss. I see now why seeing them waltzing was so damn infuriating at Dev’s wedding- because it’s my worst nightmare come to life. Baz with someone else. And I have to watch the whole world be fucking thrilled about it.

"The world sucks." I say in a defeated voice.

"No it doesn't." She says, and I give her a skeptical look. "It doesn't!" she insists.

"It's doing a convincing job of acting like it." I reply, sounding no less pitiful.

"What the world knows doesn't change what you and Baz have." She says softly. 

"I know that," I say, though I can still hear Baz's detached voice before he hung up saying, _Well, I better go tell my father the good news,_ with so much sharpness and bitterness it barely sounded like him. Not the real him, the one who giggles at Geico commercials even though they're god awful. He sounded like the version of him that exists in his worst moments, the ones that haven't seemed to come up as often since we fell in love, all caged up and miserable and self-loathing. "I just… wish this wasn't the world."

"I know. Me too, a lot of the time. On days, I open twitter and my mentions are all racial slurs and misogynist trash, I want to fling myself into the ocean." She says honestly.

"Why don't you?" I ask, and she grabs my hand and looks me in the eyes with a fierce expression.

"Because, we're going to win in the long run, Si. Okay, so you and Baz are a secret now, but you won't be forever. One day you'll walk down the streets holding hands and no one will say a word. The world's changing. How else would my mother- a first generation immigrant, an Indian woman, a Democrat from Texas- have gotten elected? Some of the bigots still need to catch up, but I have hope."

"Hope is hard to believe in today." I admit.

"Yeah. Sometimes I just want to launch into my world domination plan right away, and fuck the subtely and politics. Benevolent dictator style." I let out a huff of almost laughter at her joke. "But… for today, I have a better idea."

"What's that?" I question, knowing her plans range from annoyingly practical to borderline insane, and not knowing which way she's going with this.

"Let's go bowling." She says seriously.

I give her a skeptical look at her unexpected answer. "You hate bowling." She hates anything she's bad at, and she's _awful_ at bowling. She's never won a game because she can barely break 50.

"Yes, but you love it." She says with a carefree shrug.

I smile for the first time since I saw that article this morning. "You're the best."

"I know."

* * *

Penny deletes my social media apps for the week. I whine about it even though I know it's for the best.

But when she's not looking, I give in and re-download Instagram on the day of Baz and Agatha's staged date. My Explore page is all photos of Baz- most recently, him boarding his private jet, the wind blowing his long dark hair back, a small smirk on his face. I can't believe I used to genuinely think this was his happy expression; it's so obviously fake to me now. It doesn't reach his eyes- there's no brightness, no laugh lines. No one seems to notice- all the comments are about how handsome he looks. Which, _yeah_. But he looks much more handsome when he's happy. 

I've reread our text messages from last night a dozen times, but I still do it again now. 

**Royal Bitch** **😍** **(1:39 a.m.):** I'm heading to a briefing about this date now. Wish me luck.

 **Me (1:41 a.m.):** Good luck. Don't freak out. Call me if you need me.

 **Royal Bitch** **😍** **(1:43 a.m.):** It's the middle of the night for you, Snow.

 **Me (1:45 a.m.):** I don't care. you can always call me

He didn't, and I try not to be too disappointed about it.

When Agatha comes to fetch me from my room, I pocket my phone with an uncomfortable lurch of my stomach. As I follow her out to the car, my legs feel heavy. The ride carries on in silence, save for the radio playing pop music quietly over the speakers.

When we get to the restaurant- a trendy hipster cafe that's perfect for getting photographed without seeming like you're trying to get photographed- Agatha grabs my hand and looks me in the eye with a startling intensity, and says, "He'll be happy you're here. You're a good boyfriend."

"Thanks, Aggie," I say, relief filling me at her words. It hits me how truly nice it is of her to do this for me- she's never wanted to go on a date, she won't even do it to boost her Instagram following, but she didn't hesitate for a moment to do this for me. I pull her into a hug to say thank you, and when I pull back she smiles at me.

"How's my lipstick?" She asks, pouting her red lips at me.

"Perfect."

"Okay. Show time." she says, and gets out of the car. She's already turning heads, and she's not even with Baz yet. That tells me this plan is certainly going to work. 

I can't see them from where I'm parked. I keep my phone on my lap, and stare out the window tapping my foot impatiently. I turn up the music loud so I don't have to think. I don't know how long it's been- an hour? two?- when the car door opposite me suddenly opens. I think it's going to be Agatha, done with the date, but it's Baz, crawling into the back seat with me.

He looks more gorgeous in person than he did in the Instagram photos, in his dark blue jeans and green button up and his slicked back hair. But when he looks at me, his eyes are watery and red-rimmed and so _empty._ It’s like someone’s scooped all the Baz out of him. 

"Simon," he chokes out, and the windows of the car are tinted, so I take him into my arms immediately. He's shaking against me like a leaf, and it breaks my heart more than any misguided internet comment about how cute Baz and Agatha are together ever could.

"Baz. Darling. It's okay," I say, trying to sound soothing, trying to make sure my own voice doesn't crack. 

"It's not, it's not, it's not…" he cries against my chest. I shush him, hoping it'll calm him, but he just starts shaking his head against me. 

“I thought I wanted to- I thought this would be best… Agatha was nice to pretend. And I know we have to pretend. But I’m so _sick_ of pretending.” He says, sounding exhausted. "Everyone was looking at us and smiling and it was just… it was just all _wrong._ It was all just a hoax. I'm so tired of this. I'm tired of photo ops and briefings and the crown and the lies and-" He looks up at me, and his eyes are his again, all of his genius intensity and sizzling passion back when he says, "I just want to be with you, Simon."

I know he's been holding his breath all week. All the stilted phone calls and short text messages were because he's been trying not to show me this. Trying not to let on how much this is hurting him. I caress his cheek and he leans into my touch instinctively.

"You are," I whisper. "I'm yours."

His lips crash onto mine, and all the lingering tension from the stress of the last week evaporates from my body. He kisses me, and it feels like we've solved something in the universe. Like we can stop wars with our love. He kisses me, and it's all epic beginnings and perfect movie endings, and I just want to live in the middle of us forever.

"I love you," I whisper against his lips, and push so much force into my next words, like I'm willing them to be true, "It's going to be okay."

"I- I just don't see how," he says.

"We'll tell people the truth. On our own time. We'll wait until my mom's re-elected, and you'll come out to your dad, and then I'll take you on your own hipster date. Except, I don't want to go on a hipster date, so we'll order in pizza and watch romcoms and make out."

He giggles, and his genuine laugh is like a dose of morphine, so I keep going.

"We'll walk down the street holding hands and I'll make you wear my sweatshirts and I'll use your posh shampoo to wash my hair so I can always smell you and we'll move in together and we'll get a dog and you'll bug me about washing the dishes and you'll be forced to watch American football with me and we'll be just like any other couple. Fuck what anyone says. We'll do this together." The words come crashing out of me, and I don't even realize how badly I want it until I say it, until I let the words hang out in the open. I put my whole heart in the palm of his hand.

"You're an idiot," he whispers, and I know what he means by that is he wants it too, so I kiss him again. And again. And again. 

* * *

I'm shocked awake the next morning by a pillow to the face. 

"Penny, what the hell!" I try to yell angrily, but I'm still half asleep, so I'm really just mumbling. I open my eyes and catch the time on my clock- 4:52 a.m. "Why are you waking me before the roosters have a chance to crow?"

"Code Black." She says, palpable panic in her voice, and I sit up suddenly. Code Black means something on the emergency level has happened. Mandatory media briefings, press conferences, no outside contact, all hands on deck. 

"What happened?" I say. Though, I'm afraid I know the answer to that.

I finally notice she has a newspaper in her hands. I take it from her, and it's today's edition. 

And it has a picture of Baz and me kissing on it. It's taken from behind at a distance, but it's very clearly us. It's from yesterday, and you can see my hands in his hair. You can see him gripping the collar of my shirt. _You fucking idiot_ , I think to myself. _The back windows of the SUV aren't tinted._

That's not the worst part. The worst part is the heading: _Prince Basilton Pitch and FSOTUS Simon Snow leaked text messages!_

I see photos pointing out our unambiguously sexual messages. Me, telling him that I picked up cherry lube for New York. Him, telling me that if I didn't come to England and fuck him soon he was going to die. Us going back and forth about all the dirty things we were planning on doing to one another.

But there's also romantic ones, personal ones. Me monologuing on how much I love him. Baz mentioning his nightmares and his father's homophobia. Me talking about how out of place I feel in the White House. Him offering to kiss it better. Things that were just for him and me, laid out like accusations for the whole world to see.

"FUCK!" I scream. "Where's my phone?"

"No, Simon. No phone calls. We need to go to Mom, now." Penny insists.

"I _need_ to call Baz, Penny! He's going to freak out! He's going to-"

"Simon, I'm so sorry, but we don't know where this leak is from. We're on communications lockdown. You can't." Ebb says from my doorway. I didn't even notice she was there. 

"I need to-"

"No," Ebb says. "Give me your phone." She looks sorry- but there's an uncharacteristic seriousness to her face that tells me that this is absolutely not up for debate. I hand her my iPhone with a mutinous frown. 

As I get ready and walk with Penny and Ebb over to the Mitali's office, I'm trying not to break down. Penny grabs my hand and squeezes, and I squeeze back, but I don't feel much better. 

When we get to the Oval Office, it's a complete mess. There are a dozen people in there- stategists, campaign managers, the White House press secretary, Vice President Wellbelove. All talking at once. All clearly panicking. 

"Quiet!" Mitali says, and her tone is so compelling that the room falls immediately silent. "Everyone out."

Penny doesn't let go of my hand. "Everyone but me."

Mitali looks to me for my approval and I nod. "Everyone but Penelope," Mitali says.

All of the staff leaves the room to us, and the silence that follows is heavy. 

"Are you okay?" Mitali asks, and it's the last thing I thought she'd say before a potentially career-ending scandal, and it's that question that allows me to start crying. 

Penny and Mitali wrap their arms around me as I let it out, all the frustration and humiliation and anger and pain at the whole world is seeing the parts of Baz that are only for me and the parts of me that are only for Baz. At not getting to do this how we wanted, when we wanted, where we wanted. At having all the choice ripped from us.

When I my sobs turn to sniffles, Mitali whispers in my ear, "How do you want to play this?" 

"What?" I ask.

"How do you want to play this? We can do this however you want. Ignore it? Lie? Come out? Don't think about the election. Don't think about anything but yourself, kiddo. I'll back you up no matter what. So how do you want to do this?"

I let out the breath I was holding, relieved and proud and not at all actually surprised that she's letting me choose. "He's forever," I say as my reply, and she nods, and gives me her private smile. The one I've never seen on the cover of any magazine. Her Mom smile, her I love you smile, her it's us against the world smile.

And then Mom says, "Then, fuck it."

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Only two chapters left! It was my goal to get this done before wayward son, but you know, life happens. Still going to try but I can't promise anything. Though I'm really excited for the next chapter and it has a better outline than this one did so who knows when I'll finish (not me). Until next time!!
> 
> Also, if you'd like to find me on [Tumblr](https://annabellelux.tumblr.com), I want Snowbaz friends there. I post/ repost mostly snowbaz but also other fandom stuff of books i love (mostly queer lit and fantasy, my two fav genres) <3


	14. Never Tell Me The Odds

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Baz deals with the aftermath of the photo and text message leak.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> 7,200 words. This took me 7,200 words to say. During which I cried four times so just.... brace yourself.
> 
> TW: self harm, panic attacks, and suicidal ideation (no actual suicide, don't worry)  
> TW: homophobia, unaccepting parent
> 
> Please stay safe and healthy and (somewhat) happy while reading this. There are resources online and (for most of you) in your communities to seek help for mental health issues if you find yourself triggered or in need of help or just someone to talk to. I’ve got my Tumblr in the endnotes, and if you’d like to talk to me, I'm here as well. 
> 
> Suicide Prevention Hotline (USA): 1-800-273-8255  
> Trevor Lifeline (LGBTQ nonprofit): +1-866-488-7386  
> Website that links to crisis centers internationally: [here](https://www.iasp.info/resources/Crisis_Centres/)
> 
>   
> Without further ado, carry on <3

**Baz**

When my therapist, Vera, first suggested I try yoga for my anxiety, I kind of accused her of being a quack. And by kind of, I mean, I said, "you don't know what the fuck you're talking about, you quack".

In my defense, I was sixteen, and angry every single day of my life. Everything sounded like a stupid idea, and "glorified stretching", as I called it, seemed like an especially stupid idea.

But Vera is the Take-No-Shit type, so she told Possibelf that if I didn't at least _try_ yoga, she wouldn't bother showing to our next session. I said, bring it on. Possibelf said she would ban mint aero bars from the entire palace.

An hour after that threat, I was doing yoga.

I felt pretty ridiculous at first. The poses felt unnatural, and I didn't exactly know what the instructor meant when he told me to breathe into parts of my body. How the fuck was I supposed to breathe into my hip?

Though, I realized towards the end of the lesson that I hadn't thought of anything during yoga except for the movement of my body. And I didn't even hate my body for that hour. I was mostly trying to figure out what the hell my yoga instructor meant when he said to find my center (it took about a month for that concept to fully click).

By the time I was getting into savasana, the final resting pose, and my whole body melted into the mat, I had to admit that Vera may have had the right idea with this yoga thing. So I stuck with it.

I'm in downward dog in my bedroom when Fiona comes barging in. She startles me so badly my body jumps and I hit my head on my yoga mat.

"Fuck, Fiona. There's this thing people do where they close their fist into a ball and hit the door with their knuckles before they enter a room. It's called knocking. Ever heard of it?" I say, rubbing the top of my head.

This is usually the part where she'd give me shit for my yoga pants (sue me, they're comfortable), but instead she looks… she looks scared. I'm on my feet immediately, all the relaxation of yoga ruined in an instant’s time.

"What? What is it?" I demand, as every worst case scenario pops into my head. Mordelia's been thrown from a horse and her neck is broken. Alistair- Daphne and Father’s baby boy- has fallen from his changing table and isn't breathing. Niall's been in a plane crash. Simon has- my brain won't even let me finish with a fear for what could have happened to Simon. It's too painful to consider anything bad happening to Simon. "What's happened, Fi?"

"The press- fuck. Baz, they know. They really know. There's pictures, text messages, everything." She says, looking flustered, running a nervous hand through her wild hair. She hands me a newspaper and says, "You're not going to be able to use that Wellbelove girl as your beard for this one, boyo."

The paper has a picture of Simon and me kissing blown up on the cover. “Oh, _fuck_.” I curse.

I tear open the newspaper and scan the article. Words like _torrid romance_ and _foreign affair_ jump out at me. They’ve chosen a particularly personal text message exchange to feature, and I feel myself getting sicker as I read my words printed in black ink on the page three- words that were meant for Simon’s eyes only.

**Basilton Pitch:** I had a dream about you last night.

 **Simon Snow:** Yeah?

 **Simon Snow:** did I look good?

 **Simon Snow:** was I naked?

 **Basilton Pitch:** Yes and yes.

 **Basilton Pitch:** It was of our first time.

 **Simon Snow:** Best night of my life ❤️

 **Basilton Pitch:** Mine too, darling.

 **Simon Snow:** Call me. I want a play-by-play.

 **Basilton Pitch:** Okay, let me just think of an excuse to get out of this boring meeting.

 **Basilton Pitch:** I'll tell my dad that I've got reading for class.

 **Simon Snow:** ;)

 **Basilton Pitch:** Shut up.

 **Basilton Pitch:** I love you so much.

It's an out-of-body experience, seeing my heart printed for the world to see, with a cheap, dismissive caption- " _Basilton Pitch and Simon Snow's steamy, flirty text messages!"._ They don't know the half of it. They don't know what it took for me to be like that with someone. How scary it was to open up. How even with someone as heart-wrenchingly good and patient as Simon, it was like jumping off a cliff into sharp rocks. How Simon had to drag the vulnerability out of me bit by bit. My heart's had a brick wall around it for so long- and with every exploitative sentence and every humiliatingly personal photo in this article, I feel my heart closing off again. I feel the panic rising at the awfulness of being seen and judged and ridiculed, and I want to jump out of my body, I want to fade into nothing, I want to rip my skin apart-

Simon. I need Simon.

I snatch my cell phone from the bedside table and go to my Favorites list to call him, even though it's four a.m. in Washington D.C. I'm about to dial when Fiona rips my phone out of my hands. "What the fuck?" I demand, and reach to get it back.

"No. We don't know where this leak could be from, and if it's from Simon-"

"Simon wouldn't do that," I snap, immediately defensive.

"Easy, Baz, I'm not suggesting _he's_ the one who sent this all to The Daily Mail. But between you and him, you have the better security. His phone could be bugged."

"Fiona. I need to talk to him." I'm starting to seriously shake now, and I feel like my insides are too much, like I might explode with stress. "I need him."

"I'm sorry, kid. Not yet." Fiona says, and I want to punch her in the face, though not as much as I wish I could somehow punch myself in the face. The familiar, sick urge to get my emotions out by taking them out on myself is rising in me. The shame and shock of that buried part of myself coming out right now makes me feel queasy.

"Get out." I snarl, my voice harsh and cruel.

"Baz-"

"Get. OUT." I insist. My skin prickles with the discomfort of my anger, of my feeling too much. This is all just _too much._

"No," she says, her jaw clenching stubbornly.

I scream in frustration, and before she can say another word, I storm off into the bathroom and lock the door behind me. I sit down with my back to the wall across from the toilet and hug my knees to my chest. I hear her yell my name, so I move to cover my ears with my shaking hands.

_Too much, too much, too much._

I feel my pulse pick up as my mind tries to lie to me about what will make me feel better right now.

_If you just do it this one time-_

No.

_You just need the release-_

No.

_There's a razor in the shower-_

"No, no, no," I whisper to myself, trying to drown out the voice inside of me. The voice I know I don't really want to listen to. The one I didn't even realize could still come out so loudly. "No."

I think back to something Vera said once, something I really liked.

_You can't control your thoughts, Basilton. But you can control your actions._

I just need to control my actions right now. I keep my hands placed firmly on my ears, and promise myself not to move them until I've calmed down. My inaction is my action, my forcing myself not to cut right now, no matter what.

I'm so nauseated I think I could throw up. But I force myself to focus on my breaths. The act of bringing oxygen into my lungs, and letting carbon dioxide out. I try to let the air ground me.

In, out.

_Don't panic. Stop panicking._

In, out.

_This isn't the end of the world._

In, out.

_Hurting yourself is not the answer._

In, out.

_Don't do it, don't do it, don't do it._

In, out.

In, out.

In, out.

My pulse stops roaring in my ear as I feel my heartbeat slow. Gingerly, I take my hands off of my ears- though I regret it pretty quickly because Fiona is yelling angrily, "Basilton, open the fucking door right fucking now!"

I don't know how long it's been, how long this panic attack has lasted. All the fight that was in my body just moments before evaporates, and I suddenly feel tired, like I've just finished running a marathon.

"Baz!" Fiona says, and her usually honeyed voice is shaky. Guilt pricks at my chest, and I reach over and unlock the door. She hears the click and comes tumbling in, looking fierce enough to go into battle. I want to be annoyed that her eyes go straight to my wrists, but it would be unfair of me to fault her for checking. Considering how many scars of mine she's seen. Considering that a horrible part of me wanted to make some more right now. She scoops me into her arms with a shuddering sigh, and hugs me to her chest. She doesn't have to tell me I scared her- I can feel her hummingbird heartbeat against my cheek.

"Everything's going to be okay, Basilton," she whispers in a forceful voice. Like she's trying to push magic into them, like her sheer willpower can make the words the truth.

I don't quite believe her. But I whisper back, "okay", anyways.

* * *

Possibelf says we have to wait here for further instructions. My father, Daphne, and the kids are all in Canada for a meeting with the prime minister, and won't be here until tomorrow morning.

It's been five hours- five bloody hours- locked in my apartment. I mean, it's not exactly a dungeon, but I haven't gotten to speak to Simon in this time, so it feels a bit like torture.

Fiona's sitting me- just watching me like a hawk. At first, she tried playing me music, but I wasn't really listening, so she stopped. Then, she tried putting Crazy, Stupid, Love on, but I couldn't stop crying; I even sobbed through the scenes where Ryan Gosling is shirtless. So, we turned that movie off barely halfway through. Then, we tried playing pool, but my hands were too shaky to make a single shot. So, we've given up on trying to cheer me up all together.

I've been trying to meditate for the last twenty minutes- though it feels like it's been an hour or two. I've never liked meditation much- my thoughts runs too fast for it to work properly- but I'm not really sure what else to do.

When Possibelf comes in, I've counted my breaths to two thousand six hundred and forty seven. My mind is supposed to be cleared, but I'm still thinking about Simon.

"Okay," Possibelf says. "So here's the situation so far. The Daily Mail is not going to pull the story, and The New York Times is printing a similar piece as we speak. All of your commitments for the week have been cancelled, and the rest have been put on hold indefinitely. We've disconnected your cell phone for the time being. Your father says-"

"Can I talk to Simon?" I interrupt, my voice cracking and breaking before I even get to his name.

Possibelf's face sours like she's had a lemon; she makes that face when she's uncomfortable. "I really shouldn't be-"

"Please?" I ask, sounding desperate. "Can we make it happen, somehow? Just… I really want to hear his voice. I can't stand being in the dark any longer. I can't stand not talking to him right now."

Possibelf purses her lips. I'm not usually this openly vulnerable with her. With anyone, really. She's used to my snarky complaints and my sardonic remarks. She's used to my front.

"Fine. Fine. There's someone I can- I really shouldn't- but, well, there's a chance I could- one moment," Possibelf says, lacking composure for once. I guess that's the theme of today- unexpected defenselessness. It's weirdly humanizing to see Possibelf- usually the poster child for coolness- biting her thumb pad in a nervous gesture. She's dialling a number she seems to know by heart into her personal cell phone.

"Hey, it's me." Pause. "Yeah, I know we said we wouldn't do this and it's unprofessional and-" Pause. Then Possibelf honest to God, giggles. Jesus Christ, who does she have on the line? "Mine has been asking, too. Almost from the moment he saw it." Pause. Possibelf's eyes are soft and a sweet smile is playing on her lips. Is she talking to a boyfriend, or something? "Okay, Ebeneza, I'm handing the phone to Baz. Give yours to Simon."

_Ebeneza? As in… Ebb? Simon's Ebb?_ I wonder, as Possibelf hands me the phone. I raise an eyebrow at her. "You want to talk to your boy, or not?" she says, her expression becoming closed off again. I quickly morph my face into a thankful expression, and take the phone from her like she's handing me a lifeline.

I put the phone to my ear and hear "Baz? Baz? Baz?" in that drawling American accent I love so much.

"Simon," I respond back, my voice breathy and reverent.

"Darling," he lets out in a relieved sigh, and my heart swells.

"Hi, baby," I say shyly, not caring that Fiona and Possibelf can hear me, just caring that Simon can.

"Are you alright, Baz? I mean, fuck, of course you aren't. This is so fucking not alright. But- I mean- are you okay?" Simon stutters out.

"I'm okay. I'm not… hurt." I say, assuming that was his question, whether I've cut myself. I feel shame coil in my stomach.

"I wasn't asking that." He says, "I mean, I'm glad. I did want to know that you weren't hurt, but I trusted you, and I knew you would tell me. Though you couldn't call me. Fuck, I wanted to call so badly. By 'are you okay', I just meant- I mean- Baz." He says, his voice becoming serious, "It's going to be okay."

Why don't those empty words sound false when they come from his lips? Of course Simon Snow's got magic words. He could make the most mundane thing in the world magic. I think taking a crowded tube ride with him at rush hour in Waterloo would feel like a happy adventure. Goddamn miracle boy, he is.

I don't respond- the love in my chest is clogging my throat- so he keeps the talking going without me.

"I'm sorry, Baz. I don't know how this happened. I don't know how they could have gotten my text messages, and I'm sorry I kissed you in D.C., and-" Simon is speaking so rapidly that I don't think he's inhaling any air.

"Simon," I say firmly, after clearing the unshed tears in my throat, and he cuts himself off immediately. "Don't apologize. I kissed you first that day, remember?"

I kissed him because I felt like I needed to. I didn't even think about the press, not for a moment. All I knew was that I felt like I was dying and Simon's lips were the medicine. Like I was drowning and I was fighting to break to the surface, and the surface was Simon, always Simon. Touching him felt vital, life-saving, necessary.

But more than that, I wanted to. His voice is my favorite record, his lips are my favorite food, his eyes are my favorite view. Maybe I don't _need_ him- I mean, I can survive without him. I can talk myself down from panic attacks on my own, I can bring myself from the edge of my own mind, I can see the light without his sun. But I don't want to do any of it without him. I want to do everything with Simon because I want _him_. Because he makes every day brighter.

"Simon, do you want-"

"Baz, do you think-"

"-to maybe say that we are-"

"-I mean- I know it's not when we planned-"

We both stop talking as we realize we're just talking over each other. "Wait-" I say, though we've both gone silent, "Are we asking the same thing?"

"I dunno. I'm asking if you want to tell the truth about what we are. It's not what we planned, but- fuck, Baz. I'm yours, and I'm not ashamed, and I don't want to lie about what I feel for you. I've spent too much time lying to myself about it- I don't want to lie to the world anymore. You're it for me, and it's going to come out eventually- I mean, it _is_ out- so we might as well just. Well. Be together. What do you think?"

"I think I agree with you. Fuck the consequences." I say plainly. It doesn't make sense, but I swear I can hear his smile over the phone. "Just come here, please? We'll tell my father together. We'll do it all together."

"Yes, of course, Baz," I can hear scrambling on the other end of the line. "I'm coming right now."

  
"Simon?"

"Yes, darling?" he says, and I feel myself break into a smile for the first time today.

"Please fix your hair first."

"Fuck you, Baz," he says, and I laugh, my chest unwinding at the familiar insult thrown at me with unmistakable affection. My miracle boy is coming.

* * *

When Fiona answers the knock on the door, she squares her shoulders like she might challenge whoever came to my room to a boxing match, all of her protective love coming out as ferocity. "Who the fuck do you think you- Oh, hey Simon. About time, it's been hours."

"I came as soon as I got off the phone with him." Simon says, exasperated. "I had to fly across the Atlantic, you know."

"Still took forever." Fiona says, standing her ground.

Simon comes into the foyer, eyes scanning the room, looking for me. His hair is messy, and I love him all the more for it.

"Hey," I say in a weak voice from the couch, where I'm huddled up in a blanket with a bottle of brandy. I want to move to him, but an hour ago, while Fiona was on the phone with Simon’s people, working out his arrival, I made the mistake of going on the internet. I'm still feeling queasy from reading the comments- from the homophobic troll to the overenthusiastic fangirl, every one made me feel naked, under a microscope, in front of a crowd of people.

_My daughter is in love with the prince. She has posters of him all over her bedroom, how am I supposed to explain this to her?_

_LADIES AND GAYS BAZ PITCH IS A POWER BOTTOM_

_Omg did y'all see the text where Simon called Baz out for loving being called darling that is so SOFT we have no choice but to stan_

_Sooo… Pitchbelove was just… a lie? Shady_

_I TOLD Y’ALL THEY WERE FUCKING I KNEW IT I CALLED IT_

_Let's pretend to be best friends for the press and then actually fall in love...just kidding.... Unless? #Snowbaz_

The tweets and instagram comments and buzzfeed articles rattle around my brain, and I feel gross.

I wish my Mum was here to tell me, "it'll be okay, little puff", and sing me to sleep.

I feel a little better when Simon puts his arms around me, though.

“I’m so sorry,” he says against my hairline, "I'm so sorry, I'm so sorry, I'm-"

"Stop apologizing, you git. I'm not mad at you," I say against his throat. I pull back and he searches my face- I probably look like a right wreck. My eyes feel papery from all the crying and I can feel that my lips are rough and chapped from biting on them all day. He still leans forward and kisses me softly, licking my bottom lip and stroking my cheek affectionately. He tastes like spearmint gum and Simon Snow. It's enough to make my brain quiet for a little bit.

He pulls back to look me dead in the eye. "I'm so proud of you," he says fiercely.

I scoff. "For what, sitting here, crying and drinking and watching reruns of Friends?"

"No," he says, rubbing his thumb against my cheekbone. "For being the bravest motherfucker I know."

"I do not know how you came to that conclusion," I protest.

"I know this is scary. I'm proud of you for not totally freaking out and not talking to me." His blue eyes are mesmerizing, like fire, and I want to burn in them. My heart twists with painful affection at his words. I want so badly to believe them.

"I'm very lucky you have set such a low bar for your standards of boyfriends," I tease. It's the best I can do under the circumstances, and I think he understands, because he says, "C'mon darling. Let's go to bed."

So we do, because I'm so exhausted. I fall asleep with Simon Snow's arms around me- and I'm scared, and anxious, and I don't know what tomorrow will bring. But he's so warm, and his lips are resting on the back of my neck, and the comfort of that lets me drift off into an uneasy- but mercifully uninterrupted- sleep.

* * *

When I wake up, I smell bacon.

I throw on a sweater and walk out to the kitchen. I have a headache from all the crying yesterday, so I need to find a bottle of Aspirin. I stop myself in the hallway, though, because I hear Fiona and Simon talking about me.

"-don't know what to do. I mean, I feel like I'm still missing something. Like there’s something he’s not saying."

"Simon," Fiona says. If you didn’t know her, you’d probably say she sounds pretty exasperated right now. But I know that's the tone she takes when she is talking about something painful and is trying to hide her own hurt. "Baz misses his Mum."

"Oh," Simon says, sounding heartbroken. "I mean- I get it, sort of. My birth parents are dead. But… I don't really miss them. My dad was a bit of a prick, and thinking about how he died makes me feel pity more than anything. And my mom, I didn't know her, so I don't know how to exactly know how to miss what I don't have. I do, sometimes, but I just try not to think about it."

"Baz doesn't know how to not think." Fiona responds, a little heartbreak spilling into her voice as well.

"I know, Baz is too smart for that," Simon says earnestly, and Fiona laughs at him.

"You think that boy hangs the moon, don't you?"

I can't see him, but I just know Simon's shrugging. "He does," he says simply, and it makes me want to cry.

"Natasha hung the moon," Fiona says solemnly. "She was… She was the best. The missing her- it's constant for him. Grief like that- losing someone you love that much- it follows you on your best and worst days. It's like adding a brick onto your shoulders. You learn to adjust to the weight, but the weight never goes away. And on days like this, when there's so many other weights on his shoulder- the grief for Natasha gets worse. The missing her gets that much worse. The thing he won't say is that he's just missing her something rotten."

My throat closes. Fiona's put it into words so eloquently. We've never talked about it so plainly, but she knows exactly how I feel. I reckon it's because she feels the exact same way as I do.

"What do I do?" Simon says, sounding desperate for the answer.

"You just have to be here for him, boyo." Fiona says kindly, and I realize I've never heard her call anyone but me 'boyo'.

"That doesn't feel like enough." He says in a defeated voice.

"It is. Trust me. You hang the moon for him, too." Fiona says.

I decide to make my presence known before Fiona can say anything else about my feelings. Though I'm grateful she's told him some of the things I just can’t, I don't really want her to say any more. Plus, I'm starting to feel like a bit of a tosser, hiding in the hallway eavesdropping.

"Morning," I say, trying to sound nonchalant, but my voice cracks. "I'm going to need some Aspirin," I add after clearing my throat, gesturing to the cabinet I keep the medicine in. Snow walks over to grab me it immediately, throwing me the bottle and getting back to the stove. Fiona hands me a water, and Snow's alternating between looking at me, and looking at the food on the stove.

"Make any for me?" I ask.

"You know this is for you," he says with a smile. I did. He's making an omelet with onions and bell peppers, just the way I like it. He flips it on a plate, and then pours me some coffee, extra creamer, and places it all in front of me from across the kitchen island. I dig in, not realizing how hungry I was. He comes around with his own omelet and grabs my hand and we eat in silence.

Twenty minutes later, there's a knock on the door. I go to let go of his hand on instinct, but he only holds on tighter. I remember that everyone knows now, and there's no need to sit five feet apart and pretend we're not gay.

It's turns out to be Possibelf and Ebb at the door. They are keeping a professional distance, even though by now we've all riddled out that they're together. Possibelf wouldn't give me details, and I meant to ask Simon if he's gotten any from Ebb. I would tease them about it now to distract myself- but the tense set of Possibelf's shoulders tells me that my father's made it in.

"What time?" I ask her.

"One hour, the red room." Possibelf answers.

"Seriously?" I say my stomach sinking. The red room's for international crises and military strategy meetings. It's unnecessarily melodramatic to have a meeting about my sexuality in there.

"Seriously," Possibelf says with a grimace.

Simon squeezes my hand so tightly I think he might leave marks.

"Okay," I say, squaring my shoulders, trying to wipe the emotion from my face. "I suppose we'll be getting ready, then."

I stomp off to my room with Snow in tow. When I turn to look at him, I thought he'd be looking nervous, but he doesn't. He's got his jaw set and a slight frown on.

"I'm going to take a shower," I say.

"I'm coming with you."

"Really, Snow? You want to have sex right now?"

"No!" he exclaims, looking startled. "I just. Well. I don't want to let you out of my sight."

"I'm not made of glass. I'm not going to fall apart if you let me wash my hair on my own." I snap.

"I _know_ that." He says impatiently.

"Then go find your own shower." I sneer.

"No," he says with a stubborn set of his mouth.

"Snow-" I start, my voice made of steel.

"Don't do that." He snaps.

"Don't do what?"

  
  
"Call me Snow. Close off."

"I'm not," I lie.

"You are," he growls, and then grabs me by my jaw to turn my face down to look him in the eyes. "Me and you, alright? I know this is hard. It's hard for me, and I know it's even harder for you, but we're doing this together. I’m not insisting on staying with you because I don’t think you can shower on your own,” he rolls his eyes dramatically. I think I might be a bad influence on him. “I’m doing it because, now that I’ve got you with me, I just want to keep you safe and okay and, well. We don’t get to spend much time together with the long distance, and I’ll take any excuse I can get.”

I swallow the emotion in my throat and nod. "Yeah, okay." I’m not sure when Simon became the verbose one and I’ve become the near mute, but I appreciate it more than I can put into words.

The tension in Simon's shoulders melts a little, and he gives me a cheeky smile. "Plus," he says, a touch of amusement in his voice, "I know you like it when I wash your hair."

"Piss off," I say, trying to will myself not to blush, even though I know that's a lost cause when it comes to Simon. I take him by the hand into the bathroom.

* * *

Forty five minutes later, I'm sitting in the Red Room with Simon to my right and Fiona to my left. It's terribly creepy in here- imposing mahogany furniture, blood red walls, bronze gargoyle statues. Simon and I aren't holding hands anymore, so I'm tapping my fingers restlessly on top of the table to give my hands something to do. It's quiet in here, since nobody's spoken since we arrived, five minutes earlier than Father requested. It's five minutes after, now, even though my Father is never late. I think it's supposed to be some kind of message, like, _Baz, this is so ridiculous that it isn't even worth my time._

When he finally comes in, the three of us straighten in our seats. Father looks severe, dressed all in black, his eyes blank. Until he notices Snow, that is, and then they turn cold.

"Hello, Father," I say, standing out of respect and forcing my voice to sound clear and confident. Simon scrambles to stand, too, but he does it a full twenty seconds too late, and loudly scrapes his chair back in his sudden hurry to rise. The sound is awfully jarring, and my Father looks at him like he's the human embodiment of a faux pas.

I hear Snow let out a nervous breath, and I think I might have made a mistake letting him come here. My father's hair turned white after my Mum died, and he's got it slicked back now- he looks a bit like a stereotypical villain, especially if you don't know him like I do. Simon's got no context but this one. I _know_ my father loves me, even if he doesn't have a clue how to properly show it. Fuck, I've led a lamb into a lion's den, haven't I?

"Basilton," my Father says formally. "This is an official royal meeting."

_Translation: why the fuck is your boyfriend here?_

I choke back my anxiety, and reply, "Yes, father," like I don't catch his meaning.

"Sit," he says, and the two of us obey the command, one of us more clumsily than the other.

"So," he starts. "I was speaking to the head of the Secret Intelligence Agency, and he was telling me that technology has advanced so far that you can make anything seem like anything. You can edit pictures to show whatever you'd like them to. You can create false documents or text messages out of thin air. Imagine that, Basilton."

I want to be surprised by the direction this conversation is taking, but I can’t even pretend I am. I say nothing, biting the tip of my tongue to keep my focus and to keep from crying.

"You know, your mother and I were speaking to Mordelia about this recently. You can't believe everything you read on the Internet. It's so easy to create falsehoods just like that," he snaps his fingers on 'that'.

The room's heavy with tension as my Father turns to look directly at me. "Doesn't that sound like what's happened here, with these ridiculous reports?"

This is my Father giving me an out. A chance to keep on pretending I'm not queer. A chance to go back to pretending to be Perfect Prince Baz, cool and regal and, of course, heterosexual.

"No, it doesn't sound like what happened here," I say slowly, carefully. "What happened here, was that my private messages with my boyfriend have been leaked to the entire world."

My Father's careful composure breaks. His face goes from shock to anger to distaste, before it settles into disappointment.

"I see, Basilton," He says, his voice measured but sharp. "Do you have any idea how ridiculously childish you are being?"

It's not what I thought he was going to say, and I feel the hurt on my face as clearly as I can feel it in my chest. "Father-"

"Your mother," he carries on like I didn't speak, "wanted you to carry on her legacy. You were her only child, you are her heir to the throne, and this is how you honor her?"

"Malcolm-" Fiona tries to intercede, but my Father doesn't allow it.

"You embarrass our country and her name with a sex scandal? You gallivant around America kissing him in plain view of the paparazzi? You invite your- your- this _boy_ \- into her palace immediately after the papers report your relationship? You fly him here and then bring him to a family strategy meeting?"

All the blood's left my body. I'm not sure my heart's still beating. I've always known my father's disapproved of me, of what I am, but he's never spoken his grievances aloud before. I thought the silent vexation was bad, but this is much worse.

"Father. I know that the text message leak reflects poorly on myself, and that I shouldn't have let us get caught in a compromising position like that, but we would like to come clean now and-"

My father slams his hand on the table and everyone startles at his uncharacteristic outburst. "Basilton, this is unacceptable. I've told you what is expected of you. I've made it very clear what needs to be done. How am I supposed to get you a bride if everyone knows that you're a queer?" he spits out.

Fiona and Simon gasp- I would too, if I had any air in my lungs to spare. I haven't heard queer used like that- like it's a dirty slur, and not my identity- in a long time.

I want to say something, but I don't have the words. I don't know why I thought that I could do this, I don't know how I ever thought I could come out, I don't know-

"Apologize," Simon growls, and his face is a mask of unmistakable rage.

My Father looks at him in disbelief. "Excuse me?"

"You heard me. Apologize to Baz." Simon doubles down.

"Young man-"

"Do you have any idea how hard this is for Baz? Do you even care?" Simon looks like a human grenade, like he might go off in the palace like a nuclear weapon. "You know how miserable he's been- you know what growing up with all of this was like for him, and you _still_ want to keep hurting him? You want to force him to be someone else, when who he _is,_ is so fucking spectacular?"

"Get this boy," My Father says in a low, dangerous voice, "out of this room right now."

"No," I say, and my Father turns his anger on me. "No, he stays."

"Basilton, be _rational_ -"

"I don't care about rational. I want to be myself."

The room is so silent you could hear a pin drop. I want to drop eye contact with my Father- want to unsee the disgust written on his face- but I force myself to hold my gaze. He's the one who looks down first. "It is your duty to produce heirs.” He says, glaring at his hands, “It is your responsibility to carry on the Pitch name. Are you prepared to let your mother's legacy die with you?"

"You know that gay people can still have kids, right?" Fiona says snarkily.

"Fiona-" my Father starts.

"Like, no, really. There's this wild thing now where people adopt children, or use surrogates to have them, and then, bam, they're parents." Fiona adds in a sharp drawl.

"He's the _only heir,_ Fiona, he cannot complicate the rights to the throne-"

"He's not the only heir, Malcolm." Fiona interrupts.

"What?" My Father says sharply. "Of course he is-"

"Nope. I'm also the heir to the throne."

My gaze snaps to her, and I drop my jaw in shock. My Father's got an identical look of disbelief.

"You wouldn't-"

"You wanna test me, Malcolm? I'll take the throne back from you. I'll play dirty, too. I'll kick you out of the palace afterwards."

"Fiona, don't be ridiculous-"

"Okay, okay, maybe I won't do _that."_ Fiona says, throwing her hands up. "I'm quite fond of your wife and children, honestly." Her gaze narrows to a glare, sharp as a knife and dark as Pitch. "But I will take the throne back if I have to. I don't care if I have to put down my guitar and start wearing dresses and go to every boring meeting in this place. Hell, I'll settle down with a new king and pop out babies if that's what it takes. I'll become the bloody Queen of England if you try to force Basilton back into the closet."

Fiona's always complained about how miserable royalty is, how she hates the diplomacy and politics and responsibilities of the Crown. How she’s never, ever wanted that for herself. I can't believe she'd take it all on just for me.

"Fiona," Father tries to plead with her, "You know this isn't what Natasha would have wanted."

"Natasha would want her only son to be _happy."_ Fiona insists. "Can't you see that he's happy now, Malcolm? That he's in love? Do you think I bloody care- do you think _you_ should bloody care- with who?"

"It's not that _simple-_ "

"Fuck ' _it's not that simple'_ , Malcolm," Fiona snaps. "You think my parents wanted Natasha to marry _you_? You think she didn't get sat down just like this, and was told that she had a duty to marry better?"

Father pales. It's no secret that he was considered a poor choice on my mother's part. His family's new money with no political connections. They made all their money in the wine industry. When you consider my mother was being courted by the Prince of Spain and the Grand Duke of Luxembourg at the time, he was very much considered a lowly suitor. But, she met my father at Oxford while she was getting her P.H.D., and she fell head over heels. And she wouldn't hear anything of marrying anyone else.

"I'd say I wish she'd listened to them right about now, except then I wouldn't have Basilton." Fiona says through gritted teeth.

My father likes poker, and he says the most important rule is to know when someone's bluffing. I can tell he can see in Fiona's eyes that she's got a royal flush, because he turns to me.

"Basilton," he says, and his tone isn't as sharp as before, but it's just as serious. "People won't accept this. They simply will not allow a prince, or a _king_ , with your proclivities."

"They won't, or you won't?" Fiona demands.

" _They_ won't, Fiona, the world isn't ready-"

There's a loud, inconsiderate knock at the door that only one person in the palace would be bold enough to do.

I turn and see Mordelia let herself into the room, dressed in a red dress with her signature pigtail braids. One look at her too-innocent expression tells me that she's been listening at the door this entire time.

"Mordelia, honey-" my father says, his voice softening enough that his surprise is decipherable.

"I wanted to come talk to Baz," Mordelia says.

"Mordy, your brother's a little busy right now-" My father starts to say, but Mordelia pays him no mind.

She walks over to me and crawls into my lap, though she's too old for that, and on any other day I'd tease her for it. She cups her little hands over my ears, and whispers, "look outside."

I look at her curiously, and she's got a serious expression on. I get up and walk over to the east windows, where, I'm just now noticing, the curtains have been drawn tight.

"Basilton-" my father says nervously, just as I throw the window hangings open.

At first, I think the scene below is a mob, and I think I'm going to throw up on my shoes right now. But then I see that the crowd is dressed in reds and oranges and yellows and blues and greens and purples not separately, but all together.

Everyone's dressed in the colors of the rainbow, because this is an impromptu Pride parade on the steps of the palace.

Simon's at my side, and he grabs at my wrist to steady himself. My heart's beating out of my chest- not with anxiety, or fear, or shame- but with love. With _pride._

I read signs that say "Free Baz", and "Baz + Simon", and "We Support the Prince!", and a tear escapes me.

"Oh, darling," Simon whispers, and he's choked up too.

"This is hardly indicative of how the country as a whole will respond-"

"Shut up, Malcolm," Fiona says, and- am I going crazy, or is this making even her teary-eyed?

"Basilton-" Father starts, but I don't care what he's going to say next anymore. There's nothing to be said.

"No." I say firmly, and grab Simon's hand, interlacing our fingers together. "I don't care what you have to say, Father. He is my choice, and he is going to be my choice no matter what you say. Take the crown from me, kick me out, say what you will, but you won't change my mind. There's nothing that can change my mind about this. There's nothing you can say that will make me straight, and there's nothing in the world that will make me unlove Simon."

I'm sure my Father's expression isn't one I want to see right now, so I don't look at him. I look at Simon, and he's smiling at me. And that's enough for now.

"If that's all," I say, not taking my eyes off Simon Snow, "I guess we'll be going now."

I pull Simon Snow out of the Red Room, away from everyone else, to a deserted corridor, and push him against the wall.

"We did it," I say, amazed and shocked and so, so _happy_ that I have him here, his cheekbone under my thumb.

"You did it, you brave motherfucker," he says and then he kisses me right in the corridor, where anyone could walk by.

I don't stop him. Let anyone see- I'll kiss him anywhere I damn well please. Let anyone see- let everyone see- that I'm in love with Simon Snow.

It's hard to keep kissing through all the smiling, but we manage. 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> This was PHYSICALLY PAINFUL to write. Feel free to yell at me in the comments if I caused you distress, because I caused myself distress too so I sympathize


	15. History, Huh?

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Simon finds out who leaked his and Baz's text messages, the results of the 2020 election, and what Baz looks like dressed up as a vampire.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I know, I know, I've taken forever. If you follow me on [Tumblr](https://annabellelux.tumblr.com), you know that writer's block, midterms, and Wayward Son got the best of me. (no spoilers in this story, but hit me up on Tumblr if you wanna talk WS). I hope this long chapter (8k words!) makes up for the three week delay. 
> 
> Special thanks to [@fxandchill](https://fxandchill.tumblr.com) for beta-ing. I was heavy panicking over getting this chapter right, and her help was so reassuring.❤️
> 
> If you've gotten this far in this story: thank you so motherfucking much. I'll expand my gratefulness in the endnotes. For now, enjoy the ending of A Foreign Affair!!!
> 
> *Quick note if you aren't American or just don't care about politics: Blue means Democrat (the more liberal party), which is what Mitali is in this story. Red means Republican (the conservative party), which is what Humdrum is. No shade to anyone's political beliefs. I'm not trying to say Republicans are evil. That party breakdown just made more sense given the party's respective platforms, and the source material of RW&RB.  
> For the election night scene: the electoral college is confusing for non-Americans and Americans alike, but here's my spark notes version. American elections are won state-by-state, and for every state you win, you get electoral college votes. Different states votes matter different amounts based on how big the state is, and if you get the majority of votes in a state you win the whole state (California is huge so it gets 55 votes, Alaska is small so it gets 3). It's a numbers game. (It's the reason we have trump instead of hillary, but don't get me started on American politics).  
> If you don't care about any of this, the story will still make sense, i think. Just wanted to be helpful and show off my Political Science degree.

**Simon**

It's quiet in the Oval Office as we wait for this meeting to start. Mitali is impatiently tapping her long fingernails on her desk. She isn't used to being in the dark. Plus, I'm pretty sure she doesn’t appreciate the sheer audacity of a person who would text the President of the United States in a group message saying "powwow in the oval office see you there." 

Especially when it's supposed to be a 10:00 a.m. meeting, and it's already 10:10 a.m.

"When is she planning on showing up?" Penny asks to no one in particular. She's rapidly tapping her foot in a petulant showing of her annoyance. (Because, usually, if Mom isn't calling the shots, she is.)

"You know she's always late," I say good-naturedly, trying to keep them relatively peaceful. (Nothing's worse when the two of them are _both_ in a bad mood). "It's part of her charm."

Penny crosses her arms, "If she isn't here in the next _thirty_ seconds, I'm going to-"

Luckily, I don't have to find out what Penny will do, because that's when Agatha comes charging into the office. She looks presentable as always- her blonde hair is tied up in a red ribbon and she's wearing a knee length white dress and yellow heels. Though, her foundation can't hide the fact that she's got heavy bags under her eyes. She's got a folder tucked under one arm, and a red Gucci bag in the other.

"Hi, hi guys, thanks for coming, sorry I'm late, oh my _God,_ have I had a positively _wild_ couple of days-"

" _You've_ had a crazy couple of days? You know Simon got outed to the entire world? Personal text messages leaked and photos of him kissing the heir to the English throne on Page Six? That ring a bell to you, Ags?" Penny rants, her voice sharp. Aggie hasn't been answering the group chat, and Penny said she hasn't seen her for days. When I got home late last night, I tried calling her, but her phone went straight to voicemail. 

"Yeah duh, Penny, I know." Agatha says, rolling her eyes. I almost feel like I can smell the smoke coming out of Pen's ears. 

"Agatha, I know you hate feelings, but Simon kind of could have used some moral support," Penny says condescendingly. Agatha's eyes darken as she looks from me, to Penny, and back to me dramatically. Her intensity causes my nerves to pool in my stomach. 

"Simon, would you like some moral support, or proof?" She asks in an even voice. 

"Both?" Agatha's face tells me that's not the right answer. "I mean proof?... Wait, proof of what?"

"That it was Mr. Humdrum who outed you." Agatha says bluntly. 

Everyone straightens up at that. 

And then we all begin to talk at once.

"How _?"_ Mitali stands from her desk and demands furiously.

"That motherfucking bastard," Penny curses under her breath, her dark eyebrows downturned and her mouth set in an angry frown. 

"Wait, what?" I say, shocked, though I'm not sure I should be. 

I mean, I suspected Mr. Humdrum at first. But I dismissed it as paranoia. Finding out I was a troublesome foster kid is one thing, but hacking my phone, launching what is essentially an attack on the British royal family, outing two major world leaders' kids- that feels like… more. Too far. I assumed that I- being an unforgivably careless person- had just left my phone somewhere I shouldn't have. I tried to apologize to Baz for it over and over, but he just kissed me silent every time I tried. 

"Okay, so here's the sitch. I've been sleeping with a girl on the Humdrum campaign for information. Also because it's fun. But also for information." Agatha says, casually flipping her long ponytail over her shoulder before she continues to ramble. "She- her name's Minty, by the way- is ultra Republican. Like, _Alabama_ Republican. Her father's going to be Mr. Humdrum's Secretary of Defense if he wins. But she's also closeted so I guess she was like, why not the whole nine yards, right? I'm going to secretly sleep with the Vice President's daughter, and-" Agatha stops, looking over at Mitali, whose expression is slightly pained. 

Mitali waves her hand like she's warding off bad spirits. "If your father asks, I'm just going to pretend I didn't hear any of that. I will plead the fifth to this entire conversation." 

"Right, right." Agatha nods casually, though her face is now a violent shade of red. "Anyways, she's been saying her father was dropping hints to her that something big was about to go down. Something that would turn the tide, swing the votes in Mr. Humdrum's direction. I went over to her place right after the article dropped, and she said she overheard her father on some phone calls talking about getting a clear enough picture of something. So, we broke into her dad's computer, since he was at work- though, I mean, it was _barely_ breaking in considering his email password is their dog's name- and we found. Well, we found _a lot._ "

"Like what?" Penny asks, somehow looking both amazed and serious. She's biting her lip in a nervous gesture and leaning forward, hanging on Aggie's every word. All her annoyance over Agatha going AWOL and being late today has evidently been forgotten.

"Well, a lot of it's in code. Calling Mitali "Mage" and Simon "Mage's Heir" and all this other confusing stuff. Like, this is not Mission: Impossible. Tone it down, right? Anyways, we found his emails to a hacker and a private instigator, finally. He had hired the PI to follow Simon, get photos of him doing, quote _anything unsavory_ unquote."

I'm clenching my jaw to keep my emotions in. Agatha is looking at me, with all of her electric energy, and I don't know what to say. I'm afraid if I open my mouth I'll begin to cry. 

"Anyways," Agatha says, still looking at me and her voice softening. "I convinced Minty that we should turn in the emails to Mitali. I mean, I would have done it anyway, but it would have been a federal crime, and honestly, I don't think we should go down that road. Another scandal wouldn't be good for the campaign." Agatha finishes, like that's the only problem with email fraud. She holds up the file in her hand. "Here's everything that proves that Mr. Humdrum set Simon up."

"Oh my gosh!" Penny yells. "We should always use Agatha to do our intelligence gathering! She's so good at seducing information out of people!" 

I let out a wet, amused laugh despite myself, swallowing my tears. “So it’s not my fault, then? This didn’t get out because I left my phone somewhere dumb?” I ask.

“Nope, it would’ve happened either way, Si.” Agatha says. And then, after a pause, she adds, “Though, they did have one of their guys double check the texts' authenticity by looking at your cell phone after you left it behind in a bathroom stall at the Smithsonian Gala.”

Typical. 

“That could have happened to anyone,” Penny chimes in sympathetically, “During the first campaign season, I once left one of Mom’s speeches behind on an airplane when Ivanka Trump was on the same flight.”

“I’m sorry, you did _what?”_ Mom asks Pen, who’s already waving her off.

“We’re talking about _Simon_ , right now Mom, not me.” 

"You guys want me to go talk to the hacker? Or the PI?" Agatha asks, excitedly. 

"No, no, no, you've done enough," Mitali says, looking extremely concerned about that course of action. It might not be the best idea to use one of the First Daughters as a honeypot. "Just- are you sure?"

"Positive," Agatha says with a sharp nod, and holds her folder up again. "Minty can confirm it. She's not so happy that the big campaign plan was an outing. She's conservative, not heartless."

Penny grabs the folder from her hand and rips it open, but before she could have possibly read anything, Mitali snatches it from her. 

“I’ll take it from here,” she says sternly. Penny opens her mouth to protest, but Mom's not having it. “No, Penelope. We’re not putting a bunch of kids in charge of a Watergate level scandal, thank you very much.”

“But we can help! We’re the golden trio!” 

“That's just publicity angle! It doesn't give the three of you intelligence gathering privileges!" 

"But-" Agatha starts.

"No, I'm serious. I will handle this myself." Mitali says sternly.

Agatha nods, recognizing she's already been pushing it. Penny sighs at the injustice, but stops arguing. I say nothing, in awe of how this entire conversation has gone.

I'm not surprised, when she has the girls leave the room, Mom has me stay behind. 

It’s quiet, and the room feels heavy. 

“It’s over,” I say, still feeling uneasy. 

“The scrutiny isn’t going to end,” Mitali says carefully. “This isn’t going to fix what happened.”

“No,” I say, "It won't." As grateful as I am to Agatha, as much as it helps to know what really happened, it doesn’t change the fact that I was outed to the whole world. No amount of outrage at Mr. Humdrum or supportive Instagram comments or ‘We Ship It!’ Buzzfeed articles will change the fact that this wasn’t in my control. That the choice of how and where and when to come out was stolen from me.

She surprises me by saying, "I’m so proud of you, Simon.” 

“For what? Being dumb enough to leave my cell phone in a bathroom? For jeopardizing your re-election?”

“No. For the man you’ve become. For standing up for what’s right, and what’s true. For being an excellent son.”

I look into Mom’s eyes, and there are tears pooling in the corners. My stomach clenches uncomfortably with emotion as she comes to hug me, and I relax into her touch. I don’t know how long she stands there holding me, and though I can’t find the words to thank her, I know she knows.

“Okay then, love.” She says into my hair with a quiet sniffle. “Run along. I know you're dying to tell your boyfriend what’s happened.”

* * *

When the news breaks three days later, Twitter implodes. 

**@taylorgreene6** HUMDRUM OUTED #SNOWBAZ!? America y’all are a damn MESS

 **@chad_baker_69** THE AMERICAN PEOPLE DESERVED TO KNOW THE TRUTH. #IStandWithHumdrum

 **@goldentrio3** this #Snowbaz story has so many twists and turns and I'm here for it??? 

**@liberaljazzy** There needs to be a federal investigation into Humdrum. Can we allow someone so immoral to run for office? To potentially be our next president?

 **@ravengirls** Sign my petition to get Humdrum banned from England! [change.org/link]

 **@menistbro** it’s disgusting that Mitali Bunce is still letting her son have international booty calls

 **@pitchlover61** star crossed lovers❤️ [slow motion gif of Simon and Baz exchanging a glance during an interview]

There is so much bad and good and wrong and right my head wants to explode. I don’t know what to focus on, what to ignore. I think about screaming into my pillow like I’m a teenage girl in a high school dramedy, but then my phone rings from across the room, and it’s Greased Lightning. I scramble to grab it before my phone goes to voicemail.

“Hi,” I say, my voice breathless. 

"Hello, love," Baz responds, the honeyed sound of his voice taking the stress out of my shoulders. 

"Don't you feel a bit like we're in a Bond movie with these phones?" I ask, referring to the burner phones Ebb and Possibelf got for us to use. At first, they tried to suggest we both just stop using cell phones until the investigation could be completed and our security was effectively tripled, but that didn’t go over very well. Two Gen Z-ers in a long distance relationship not having any type of phone? We both protested loudly at that. Ebb and Possibelf shared a private “ _our jobs are impossible_ ” look.

“I’d make a great James Bond.” Baz says matter-of-factly.

“I’m the James Bond!” I insist. “You’re one of the hot Bond girls.”

Baz lets out an indignant scoff. “ _Please_ , Snow. If anyone’s the eye candy here, it’s you.”

I blush despite myself. “Nah. You’re plenty great to look at, Baz.” Understatement of the century. 

“Oh, I know,” Baz says, and I close my eyes so I can picture the crooked smile he’d flash me if he were here.“But I’m also the more competent of the two of us. And the only one of us who can hold down a martini.”

“That was _one time_ , Baz. _One!_ ” I try to sound indignant and angry, but it’s undercut by my involuntary laughter. 

"One time is enough when you went and got _vomit_ on my _Gucci shirt_."

He really looked lovely in that shirt. Blue silk with red roses. Something only he could pull off. I was sorry to have ruined it.

"No one told you that you needed to hold my hair back," I mumble.

"I'll leave you for the wolves next time, then." He says, though I know he wouldn't. I know it by the smile in his voice and the fuzzy memory I have of him that night whispering _it's alright, love_ in my ear as I retched up vodka. As mortified as I am at the recollection, I'm weirdly charmed that prim and proper Baz Pitch would sit on the bathroom floor to take care of me after I've had one too many drinks. 

We go on teasing each other like this for hours, until finally we concede that we’ve got to end the call. I need to meet my family to get ready for my press conference and he's got dinner with his aunt- his first time out in public since the news broke. So we get off the phone, and it's not until I hear the disconnect beep that I realize how standard ' _I love you_ ' has become in our relationship- how we use it like it's easy to say as a goodbye. Because it is, with us. Because our love is undeniable. 

I'm smiling like a loon at the thought. It doesn’t matter what Twitter says, really, compared to the way Baz loves me.

* * *

_August 30th, 2020_

_First Son Of The United States Speaks Out About His Relationship With Prince Basilton!_

_The Simon Snow and Basilton Pitch saga continues! Simon Snow has confirmed his sexuality and his relationship with 'boyfriend' Baz._

_In a press conference last night, broadcasted from the Oval Office, Simon Snow gave a short speech on the nature of his relationship with the crown prince, with his mother President Mitali Bunce and sister Penelope Bunce at his side._

_Most of the broadcast consisted of statements by his mother, saying that she stands by her son “one thousand percent”, and that she stands against “patterns of dirty politics and attempts at smear tactics.”_

_“This is not how I would have chosen to come out to the world.” The First Son started his quick statement, a serious expression on his usually smiling face. 'This story has become about politics, but it’s really just a love story- my love story. Nothing more, nothing less. I am a proud to identify as a bisexual man. Baz-uh, I mean, Prince Basilton Pitch- is my boyfriend. And we would appreciate privacy at this time.”_

_Penelope Bunce then gave a heartwarming speech about her commitment to her brother, and how in times like these, family is what is most important to her. “My brother is an amazing person, and he did not deserve to have his privacy breached like this. Every American has a constitutional right to privacy, and the right to freedom, happiness, and choice. These are things my mother, your president, believes in, and will continue to fight for. These are the things every American should strive for and have faith in.”_

_Our sources say that Mr. Humdrum’s campaign is in shambles trying to find the leak that exposed their plot to out Mr. Snow and Prince Basilton. Rumors claim it came from someone close to Senator Graham, Mr. Humdrum’s candidate for Secretary of Defense, but we won’t know until the FBI completes their independent investigation of the campaign._

_In the meantime, expect to continue to see more of the international couple that has shocked the globe. Shortly after the conference, paparazzi caught Basilton Pitch's private jet landing in Washington, D.C. See the photos below of the Prince looking cool as ever, with his chin up and a slight smirk on his face. Looks like these lovebirds are happy despite the drama with Mr. Humdrum._

* * *

"Baz, you promised!" Mordelia yells. 

"I did no such thing," Baz responds in a low voice, a hint of a blush across his cheekbones. He's trying to look stern, but the corners of his lips are twitching, so he’s not fooling me. 

"It's my birthday!" she says, her tone excessively dramatic.

"It _is_ her birthday, Baz." I repeat with a smirk and he sends me a weak glare. 

"Fine, fine," Baz says, throwing his hands up in defeat. "What song do you want me to do?"

"Hit Me Baby One More Time," Mordelia says matter-of-factly.

" _No!"_

I feel someone throw their arm around my shoulders, and I turn to see Fiona grinning at me maniacally.

"Sup, Fi?" I ask. "You know it's rude to be late to a kid's birthday party?"

"Shut up, golden boy." Fiona says, with a shit-eating grin, "I got Mordelia a great present. She's going to love it."

The mischievous glint in her eyes prompts me to ask, "But will Malcolm?" 

"Doesn't matter,” she says in a way that tells me the answer’s no. “I got leverage over him. I do what I want." 

That, she does. Though it's glaringly obvious to anyone with eyes that Fiona would hate being Queen, she wasn’t bluffing when she threatened to take the crown from him. She’s been pulling no punches since that meeting in the red room. (Most macabre room I've ever been in, honestly. There was a moment- just a moment- where I was afraid our entire year-long relationship was a ploy to get me into that Room of Doom and murder me. It had heavy 'let's write a death metal album and sacrifice a virgin' vibes. Though, I'm nowhere near a virgin anymore- it was still creepy as shit.) 

Anyways, Malcolm hasn't said a derogatory thing to Baz since that day. I don't know how much of it is his fear that Fiona will ascend to Queen and how much of it is him finally accepting Baz is gay. I can tell Baz hopes it's the latter. I can sense the grudging optimism in the way he'll call and say 'Father asked me how you were doing, today' in a falsely calm tone. It's clear to me how much he craves his father's acceptance, no matter how much of a prick he's been to Baz. 

"How about this, Mordy?" Baz says, his face equally parts amused and exasperated. Him and Mordelia seemed to have continued their argument about karaoke. "Simon and I will sing Summer Nights. That good with you?"

Mordelia squeals. "Oh, yes!"

"Uh, no thanks," I try to say.

"She's the birthday girl, Snow," he says teasingly, using my own logic against me.Fiona laughs loudly in my ear. I don't have much of an argument, so I huff out a defeated sigh and let Baz drag me onstage.

Baz makes me do Olivia Newton John’s part, and I've got all of Mordelia's little friends giggling at my performance. Baz is obviously trying not to laugh, but his composure breaks when I dramatically wink at him and change the line to _summer heat, boy and boy meet._ I'm grinning widely at the roaring applause we get at the end. Mordelia jumps into Baz's arms afterwards- neither of them minding the fact she's getting a little too old for it- and Baz smiles carefreely at her. 

"Good enough, Mordy?" He asks. 

"It was okay," she says, her face a mask of false indifference. (She’s Baz’s sister, alright). "Still want you to sing Britney Spears though."

Baz frowns and I laugh. I open my mouth to tell him that he's got to sing 'Toxic' next, when I hear a deep voice say, "Hello, Basilton." 

Malcolm Grimm is looking at Baz with an unreadable expression. Baz straightens up and his face becomes blank as he responds, "Hello Father."

Malcolm turns to me and says, "Hello, Mr. Snow." 

"Uh, um, hey," I manage to blurt out. We haven't spoken since the Red Room. The memory of demanding the King of England to apologize to his son makes my cheeks burn, though I don't regret it. I meant it. (Especially since he hasn't actually apologized to Baz, not yet.) I clench my jaw and try to look confident. 

"I'm glad you're here," he says to me, and I feel my face morph into surprise. "We need to arrange a time to do the royal portraits." 

"The…. what?" I ask.

"The royal portraits. It's customary for royals to have official photography done with their significant other for the public, when they are courting or being courted, and it's serious." 

The memory of an image of Baz's parents sitting in front of Kensington Palace pops into my mind as I realize what he means. I look over to Baz, whose face is almost comically surprised, jaw dropped and eyes wide. I get the ridiculous urge to reach over and close his mouth for him, but I restrain myself. 

"Father?" Baz says, his voice tentative.

"How's next weekend sound? The weather is supposed to be nice." Malcolm carries on. 

"Um," Baz says, and then seems to shake himself out of his stunned stupor. "Yeah. Yes. Sounds good."

"Good man," Malcolm says, and his voice finally betrays a bit of his nerves, quivering on the 'a' in man. He moves to clap Baz on the shoulder, but seems to think better of it. Malcolm lets his hand drop awkwardly and walks away, leaving Baz and I in silence. 

Mordelia breaks it with a "I want cake now." I'm not sure if she's just failing to read the room or if she's purposely trying to change the subject, but it makes Baz smile softly.

"Let's go tell your Mum, then." Baz says, seeming grateful for the distraction. 

After we've sung Happy Birthday to Mordelia- and watched Fiona smear a chunk of cake on a laughing Mordelia's face- I gesture to Baz to take our treats out to the balcony. He nods and follows me out, and we sit closer together on the loveseat than we would've dared just two months ago.

"So… royal portraits?" I ask, not knowing a casual way to bring it up.

"I can't believe he suggested that." Baz says, sounding a bit dazed. 

"Yeah, me neither," I try to sound neutral, but I'm still a bit angry, and I think it comes out in my voice. Baz looks up from his red velvet cake to look me in the eyes.

"Do you not want to?" He asks nervously.

  
"No, no, I'd be happy to," I say, and I mean it. It would be nice to have pictures of Baz and I together. Ones that aren't paparazzi photos or private drunken selfies. Ones that I could maybe frame and keep by my bed. "It's just… surprising coming from him. After everything he's said to you."

I'm not sure if this is okay to bring up. Baz hasn't, not really, other than offhand comments about his father. We haven't talked about how Malcolm accused Baz of ruining his mother's legacy and used queer like it was a dirty word. 

"I'm mad, too. About everything that happened that day. About the things he said." Baz says, getting to my unspoken point like he’s read my mind. "But… he's my father. Despite everything he said, he's still my dad. And part of me wants to say fuck it and never speak to him again, but the other part of me…" he trails off, looking ashamed. "The other part of me just wants him to accept me. And I'm happy that he's starting to come around. Is that pathetic?"

I think about what I would do if Mitali had said all the wrong things instead of all the right things. It puts a pound of lead in my stomach just thinking of it. Would I still love her, even if she said those things?

_Yes,_ I think. _I would be furious, and heartbroken, but I'd still love her._

I think of my birth father, how he used to make me feel so small and scared. I suddenly get a memory- summer day when I was six, maybe seven- of my dad pushing me on the swings, of him smiling at me, of him buying me an ice cream. It wasn't all bad, not when he was sober.

_Do I love him?_ I wonder. And I don’t know. I think I might. 

"However you feel isn't pathetic, darling. It's normal to want your parent to accept you." I whisper gently, and some of the tension melts from his expression. "It's okay to be mad but still love him.”

He rests his head on my shoulder, and I put my arm around him. We're silent for a few moments, until he says, softly, "It would mean a lot to me if we had those photos taken together. I always loved looking at the ones of my parents. My mum looks so happy in them."

My heart swells at the nostalgic tone of his voice."Then we'll take them."

"Yeah?" he asks hopefully.

"Yeah." I say, smiling. "On one condition."

"What?" 

"You gotta wear your hair in a man bun. It looks sexy like that." I say earnestly, and Baz's laughter against my shoulder shakes my chest. It gets me laughing too. 

* * *

"You look ridiculous," Agatha says as she struts into my bedroom. 

"What? No." I protest, fidgeting with the collar of my black button-up. "Baz will love it."

"Oh, I'm sorry," Agatha says, her voice teasing, "I guess you can't look ridiculous if it's some sex thing for Baz."

"It's- it's not a sex thing!" I splutter. "It's just a joke!"

"Suuuuure," Agatha says in a high-pitched, sarcastic voice. "The devil costume isn't a sex thing. Suuuuure."

I blush, even though it's _not_ a sex thing. When I came up with the theme for our costumes this year- we're all dressing like our fictional counterparts- I told Baz he _had_ to be a vampire this year, no arguments, and he insisted that I had to be a mythical creature too.

_Which one?_ I asked. _A wizard, like Harry Potter?_

_Harry's not a mythical creature, Snow!_ Baz responded and then smirked. _Anyways, you'd be a devil. A handsome devil._

I scoffed, but he said. _No, really. You drove me mad for years. Being near you but not close enough used to be_ torture, _Simon. You're too good-looking for everyone's wellbeing._

I thought maybe Baz really would like it if I dressed like a devil tonight, as long as he got to touch me after.

Okay, maybe it's kind of a sex thing. 

"Whatever," I say, "my costume is better than yours."

"As if!" she says and flips her long blonde hair. I set her up perfectly for that joke. She's got the iconic Clueless yellow plaid outfit and white stockings, and she's almost doing Cher Horowitz better than Alicia Silverstone did. 

"C'mon, guys," Penny says, popping her head in the door. Her hair's frizzy, and she's got on a pleated skirt with a matching grey sweater vest. If it weren't for her Hogwarts robes, I'd say this was any old Tuesday. "Everyone will be here soon." 

I check my phone, and Baz has texted me, _I've got everyone in the car. I'll see you in 20._ and I'm out the door and down the stairs quickly after that.

When I get to the foyer, I see they've arrived- Baz, Dev, Niall, Phillipa, and two girls I've never met. Baz has on form-fitting, dark blue skinny jeans and a white, almost see through V-neck. His black leather jacket is vintage, I think, and it accentuates his broad shoulders. His black hair is slicked back, making his widow's peak look as prominent as ever, and his lips are stained red with fake blood, which is also dripping down his chin. He smiles, and I see he's got fake teeth on his canines.

It's even sexier than I imagined. 

Baz raises an eyebrow at me- I don't know at what, my costume or my dropped jaw- as I throw my hands around his neck and lock him into a tight embrace.

"Oh my god, are they always like this?" I hear one of the girls ask.

"Always," Dev responds.

I don't care. I kiss Baz full on the mouth with hardly any restraint, and he kisses me back just as fiercely.

"Hey," I whisper, when I manage to pull back, "I like your costume."

Baz's eyes are glittering with amusement. "I couldn't tell," he says sarcastically.

I notice then his grey eyes are rimmed with charcoal, bringing out the unique color and their startling intensity. I put "Baz in eyeliner" at the top of my list of favorite things. 

"Aren't you going to introduce us?" One of the girls- a short, pretty, pink-haired Asian with a lip ring- asks.

"Simon, this is Keris and Trixie," Baz says politely.

"Pleasure to meet you. I've heard so much about you," the blonde girl says with a slight smile and an eastern European accent. I recognize her- Keris- from paparazzi photos and Baz's stories.

"Don't oversell it, Ker," Baz says, narrowing his eyes.

"I've heard an appropriate amount about you." she corrects. I smile, liking her already.

The party's already in full swing when we get to the ballroom. It feels even louder and more crowded than it did last year. I remember being so nervous to see Baz, wondering what he'd be wearing and whether we'd get along and if he'd still want to talk to me once he got to know me a bit more.

Oh, what a difference a year makes.

I must be smiling like an idiot, because Baz asks, "What's got you so chipper, Snow?" 

"You." I say, "Always you."

Our friends gag. Baz rolls his eyes, but I can tell he liked my answer. 

"Wanna hit the closet?" I ask.

"Oh, God. Never again," Keris says cheekily.

"It's where the alcohol is," Baz tells her. "Right, Snow?"

"Yep," I smile.

"Let's go, love." He says, putting his hand on the small of my back to lead me to the right hallway so we can take covert shots of Fireball. 

The rest of the night passes in a movie montage of excellent moments, each better than the last. Phillipa and Agatha plan to start a fashion line together. Trixie proves herself to be an impressive house DJ. Niall does a keg stand. Keris tell me a story about a 17-year-old Baz who had some royal groupies waiting outside his hotel with an "impregnate me, Prince Baz" sign. Dev beats Baz in beer pong three times in a row. Penny and Baz debate how to properly pronounce Timothee Chalamet's name.

By midnight, I've got Baz on the dance floor, and we're dancing to Panic! At The Disco, when I ask him, "Wanna go make out by the rose garden for old times sake?"

He smiles like he's made of trouble. "Why bother going out into the cold when I can just kiss you right here?" 

"Put your money where your mouth is," I challenge.

"I'd rather put your mouth where my mouth is."

"Baz, that is the worst joke you've ever-"

He kisses me to shut me up, and the whole world fades. I think I forget my own name. I forget everything that isn't Baz. 

* * *

"Quota." Penny says.

"Don't 'quota' me," I groan. "Not today, of all days."

"Fine, fine." Penny concedes. "No Baz quota today. But _only_ today."

"Thank you." I say, and check my phone for the hundredth time. "Where _is_ he?"

"I don't know, Simon," Penny says, sounding as if she's using her last shred of patience to stay even-tempered. 

Being in this room, with all these analysts and supporters and donors who keep wanting to talk to me, is making me nervous. It's too loud and it's too much pressure; I'm no good at networking and politics and seeming like I'm not freaking out. I need Baz here to ground me, to make the noise a little easier to block out. 

"Why did he even bother going home?" Agatha says. "He could have just flown over here from D.C. with us if he'd stayed."

It would have been nice to have Baz here all day. To show him all the spots in Austin Penny and I used to hang out as kids. Though, today was Penny and I's first chance to vote- first time being eighteen and all- and it was nice to go together to the voting location, just the two of us. To see my Mom's name printed there, and to cast my vote for her in our hometown was an experience. 

Mom knows the chances of winning Texas are slim. During the last election, she made her victory speech here, even though she had lost Texas to the Republican candidate. She still insisted on coming home this time, though I think she's getting nervous about that decision now. 

"He had to go to some meeting with his dad," I respond, making my voice as casual as possible. I'm sworn to secrecy on the details of the five year plan to transfer leadership responsibilities from Malcolm to Baz. He's going to ascend on his 25th birthday, and I can tell he's nervous about it. Even if he pretends not to be. 

_It's all just formalities, Snow,_ he says. 

Maybe the English monarch is just a figurehead. But I still think Baz will look dead handsome in a crown.

"Simon. Simon!" Penny yells."He's here."

My mood brightens immediately, and I search the room until I find his lean figure framing the doorway. He's got a deep burgundy suit with a black undershirt on, and he's left his hair loose around his face like I asked him to. I let out a sigh of relief.

"There you are," I say to him as he approaches.

"Hey, love. I'm sorry I'm late." Baz says, and kisses me softly. I blush, still getting used to kissing in public with him. "Weather conditions made the flight dodgy, and then my phone died."

"It's okay," I say lightly, and Agatha scoffs.

"Really?" she asks me, disbelieving, and then turns to Baz to and says, "He was all _where's Baz? Do you think Baz will be here? He said he'd be here at 8:00, and it's 8:05, what does that mean?_ for the past hour. It was like he hadn't seen you in a year."

I frown at Agatha for exposing me and Baz grins, looking pleased that I so clearly missed him. "How are the polls looking?" he asks, changing the subject mercifully. Or, I'd say it was merciful, except…

"Neck and neck," Penny says tersely. “Still calling the swing states.”

The smile drops Baz’s face, and I look away before he can meet my eyes.

_Is this my fault?_ I wonder.

Mitali is an incumbent. Incumbent presidents nearly always win, unless they do something outrageous. Starting unpopular wars. Tanking the economy. Doing something illegal- quid pro quo or election fraud or _something._

But all my mom’s done is have a queer son. 

“Hey, Si? The food's just got here,” Penny says, her voice falsely light. I know she's stressed too- she keeps biting her nails- but she's doing a better job of hiding it than I am.

“‘m not hungry,” I mumble.

“Sure you are, Snow,” Baz says, and grabs me by the hand, dragging me over to where Ebb’s got bags of takeaway. Ms. Possibelf is with her, helping her set the food out buffet style. 

“Here ya go, Simon,” Ebb says happily, handing me a box. I open it and it's Franklin Barbeque- my favorite. I suppose I could _try_ to eat. "There's a room in the back you and Basilton can take your dinner to, if you want a break from all this." She gestures to the whole room, with knowing look that tells me she knows how much I hate this. Being alone with Baz sounds like a _much_ better option, so we take the food to the back room. 

When I open the box of BBQ, the smell of the ribs is enough to make my stomach growl, reminding me that I haven't eaten since noon. I dig in messily immediately, but Baz's looking at his food with furrowed brows.

"You're looking at your food like you've never seen any before," I say to him with my mouth full, and his nose wrinkles.

"And you're acting like a wild dog who'll never see food again," he snaps.

"Wait." I say. "Have you never had Texas style barbecue before?" 

"Snow, when would I have possibly had Texas style barbecue?" He says, and I try not to laugh at the fact that he's trying to eat his ribs with a fork. 

"You have to use your hands." I correct him. 

He sighs and picks the rib up and takes a gingerly bite out of it. His eyes brighten when he realizes how good it is. 

"Yeah?" I say, a little smug. He nods, the corners of his mouth upturned. Some sauce gets on his nose, and I think about rubbing it off him with a napkin, but it's funnier this way, so I don't say anything. We eat in comfortable silence, and I try not to think about the polls. 

I don't think I'm doing a very good job of it, because Baz says, "You're really worried."

I didn't realize he was watching me. But he is- he's leaning forward with a concerned look on his face. When he reaches for my hand, I don't hesitate to let him intertwine our fingers.

"If she doesn't win, it'll be my fault," I say in a low, ashamed voice, and he frowns.

"No, it'll be America's fault." he says in a flat voice.

"No, seriously, Baz. This election is only so close because of me. Because of us."

He goes quiet, and I worry I've hurt his feelings. Though, his voice is steady when he says, "Do you regret us?"

"Never," I say fiercely. "That's not what I-"

"No, Simon, listen." he says, his voice urgent and his eyes alight with crackling intensity. "I meant it when I said fuck the consequences. It's not our responsibility to convince people that our relationship is right. Who cares what they think? We _know_ it's right. I'm gay, and you're bisexual, and we're together, and the history books will say what they want about it. Whether they call us brave or reckless in hundred years isn't our business. The only thing we need to do is to be happy."

My heart does weird things in my chest at his zealous expression. He looks like he'd go to war for me, like he'd follow me anywhere. I can barely find words for the way his love fills me to the brim, like he's poured magic in my veins. 

"Who are you and what have you done with Baz Pitch?" I ask after a pause. I can't believe the man in front of me is the same boy who once told me in a broken voice that he couldn't be gay. That the world wouldn't let him.

" _You_ happened to me, you prat. You forced your way into my life and heart and I can't imagine it any other way now." He smiles crookedly. "You're stuck with me now, I'm afraid. Vampires tend to mate for life."

In this moment, I realize I'm positive we'll get married one day. I've got to lean forward and kiss him fiercely just to resist the urge to get down on one knee right here.

A knock on the door interrupts us, and Penny's head pops in. I guess it's a good thing- I was spiralling a little, thinking about what cake we'll have at our wedding. (We'd have to do the shove cake in each other's faces tradition, right? Or should we just throw the whole damn thing on the floor, for memories sake?) (It would be hilarious, though I'm not sure I'd be willing to let a royal dessert go to waste a second time.)

"Hey," Penny says, her voice businesslike. "More of the polls came in." 

I know it's serious since Penny's not even mentioning the fact she just walked in on us full on making out. "What is it?" I demand.

"Well, we got California- obviously. But he got Iowa, and Utah, and Montana, and it's looking like he might get Nevada." Penny says. 

"We were projected to get those, weren't we?" I ask. I can't remember exactly what Penny's huge "Election Prediction" whiteboard said, exactly. And I don't know what that means for our Mom's chances. The electoral college system is so unnecessarily confusing. 

"Yeah, it- fuck. Simon, it might come down to Texas." Penny says, biting her lip.

"Texas still hasn't been called?" I say, shocked.

"Still too close to call." she says.

This is… almost unprecedented. I may not be clear on all the details, but I know that Texas is usually declared red pretty early on. 

"Listen, Mom wants you to do a speech-" she starts. 

An indignant, shocked noise comes out of my throat. "Me!? I don't think that's such a good idea-"

"Yes, it is!" she insists, "You're the most popular of us-"

"What? I mean- _what?_ No, I'm not!"

"Simon, do you even read the reports I give you every morning?"

"Yes," I lie.

Penny sighs, seeing right through me. "You're like the American dream, Si. Pretty boy from Texas who has overcome everything you have? You're good for morale."

"Penny, I had a sex scandal this summer!"

"You survived a smear campaign! Texans love grit." she says. "Did you really not know that your numbers are still really good?"

"I assumed…" I start, but stop when my voice becomes unexpectedly choked. I assumed they've tanked, so I haven't even looked at them. 

Baz squeezes my hand, and I get some of my voice back. "Mom wants me to give a speech?"

"Yes, the crowd's excitement starting to dwindle. They're calling Texas within the hour, but it would be good if you could say something, keep them hopeful." Penny says. 

Part of me wants to ask her why she can't just do it, but my Mom wants _me_ to do it. After everything, she still wants my help. Well, I can't say no to that, can I?

I hear the crowd before I see them. It might be my imagination, but it's almost like I can feel the anticipation of the crowd. Everyone's thrill and fear and hope is mixing in the air, and I take it all in with a deep breathe as I make my way to the podium at the center of the stage.

Mom's supporters go wild when they see me. The screaming is deafening and the crowd is so endless I can barely make out faces. I focus my attention on a pink, purple, and blue flag in the middle of the crowd that says 'We love you, Simon Snow' written on it that's got me blushing with pride. 

"Hi y'all. I'm Simon Snow, your first son. Thanks for coming out tonight." I swallow my nerves and just start speaking- unscripted, straight from the heart. "Now, the polls are saying Texas is too close to call. And, um, my sister informs me this hasn't happened since 1976. That's the year y'all voted for Jimmy Carter instead of Gerald Ford. That year, you all said 'no, we won't stand for corruption'. Because this is a state that believes in honesty and integrity. You all made history that night by taking a stand." The nerves in my stomach turn to excitement when I look over to Baz, and he's giving me an easy, happy smile, and I'm thinking about my mother and this country and Baz, when I say, not taking my eyes off him, "History, huh? I bet we can make some." The crowd cheers, and I turn back to them. "What do y'all think? Think we can make this year a repeat of 1976? Think we can go blue?"

They yell so loudly I think the arena's shaking. I take that as a yes. "I love you, Texas!" I yell as I make my way off the stage and to Baz.  
  
"That was brilliant, love." he says softly, and, for the first time after a public speech, I really believe that it was. I promise myself not to read what the reports say about this tomorrow. 

"Simon! Simon!" Agatha yells. She looks frantic. "They're going to call Texas! CNN is about to call it."

I look to Baz and he finally displays a bit of his own nerves with a subtle bite of his lower lip. We make our way over to the main room where everyone's gathered. We make our way to the front, where Mitali and Martin are standing with Premal. Penny goes to her brother and he puts his arm around her in an uncharacteristic gesture of affection, and Penny must really be nervous, because she lets him hug her. I see Ebb and Possibelf in the corner holding hands with anxious expressions. Agatha's father has his arm on Agatha's shoulder tightly, and she's leaned into his chest. All of our eyes are glued to the screen. 

The reporter on the TV brings her hand to her earpiece, and says, "okay, okay. We're getting reports that Texas is close enough to call. This is it, folks. Whoever wins Texas, wins this election."

There are fifty people in this room, and tens of thousands outside it. But in this moment, it is so deathly quiet that you could hear a pin drop. 

"Texas goes to…" the reporter starts to say, and the screen behind her shows our state on the screen colorless for one, two, three heartstopping seconds, before it turns undeniably Democrat blue. "MITALI BUNCE!" 

"FOUR MORE YEARS!" My mom screams. 

The silencing spell of the room is broken, and it feels like all of Austin has erupted into deafening cheers. Baz has scooped me into his arms and into an end-of-the-movie kiss, and I'm laughing into it. Because we did it. We survived this election. My mom won. We're together. Everything is okay. 

The rest of the night is a blur of congratulations and champagne, and the whole time Baz never lets go of my hand. My mom giving her acceptance speech with tears in her eyes. Mr. Humdrum calls to concede, and my mom just reminds him never to come after her son again. Agatha somewhat drunkenly gets on a table and announces that she's going to school in the spring so she can follow her true calling and become a secret service agent. When Baz and I catch Ebb and Possibelf kissing in the hallway, we make them take us to the Bunce's ranch house early. I don't really want to be around all the people anymore; I just want to feel Baz's arms around me. 

"Hey," Baz whispers when we're minutes from sleep in my childhood bed together, "We won."

"Yeah," I whisper back as he kisses the back of my neck, "We won."

We really, really did. 

  
  


**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Welp. I'm going to miss Prince Baz and First Son Simon, aren't I?
> 
> This story, of course, would not have been conceived without the inspiration of Red, White, and Royal Blue, so shoutout for Casey McQuiston for that masterpiece of a (debut!) novel. 
> 
> Thank you to every single human that commented, left kudos, and read this story. I've had a rough couple of months, and as you have probably heard (since I never shut the fuck up about it) I'm in law school, which is hard as fuck. But having something happy to write kept me from going crazy, or just full stop dropping out. 
> 
> Subscribe to me if you'd like. I'm still writing Snowbaz fanfic and I'll be back at Watford next time, writing another Angst With A Happy Ending, because that is my shtick. 
> 
> Also, come hit me up on [Tumblr](https://annabellelux.tumblr.com). I'm really nice, I swear. I post and reblog a bunch of Snowbaz and other queer lit/fantasy/YA stuff there. 
> 
> 'til next time, friends! I heart y'all.

**Author's Note:**

> let me know what you think in the comments plz
> 
> Find me on [Tumblr](https://annabellelux.tumblr.com)


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